David doesn’t know he has a son.
Chapter Sixty-One
Ella spent most of the train trip from Cape Town leaping from one side of the empty carriage to the other. On the right was a spine of mountains clothed in green forests, on the left a succession of pretty suburbs, to the right – further on – a valley chock-full of vineyards, to the left the sand-fringed banks of a small stream—
‘Excuse me, miss, your ticket?’
‘Oh sorry,’ Ella rooted in her bag and handed it over.
‘First visit, miss?’ the conductor asked.
‘Yes. It’s so beautiful!’
‘This is nothing,’ he grinned as he headed forward. ‘Down south is the best.’
The train came around a bend and there it was, the vast blue horseshoe of False Bay, rimmed by grey-green mountains. Ella remained glued to the sea side as the train chugged past tiny crescents of sand lined with bright beach huts, and negotiated low bridges mere feet above the water. Neat villages clung to the seashore above the railway line.
St James, Kalk Bay, Fish Hoek, Glencairn.
She leant out of the window and closed her eyes, letting the spray speckle her face, imagining Dad’s warship sailing through the same waters, battle-scarred, desperate for safety.
Thank God for ST, he wrote in 1941.
Gale-force winds. Massive seas. Constant alerts.
Tanker torpedoed, picked up survivors. We need solid earth. An uninterrupted night’s sleep.
The port appeared around a headland, tucked into a protective curve of mountains, Simon’s Bay at its feet and peacefully dotted with yachts. A cluster of taller naval masts thrust above the harbour wall. Flags flew from poles above a jetty.
‘End of the line! All change!’
She stepped off the train with a strange sense of familiarity.
Look up, Dad had said, always look up!
The highest peak is the Simonsberg, and if the wind is from the south-east there may be cloud around its peak.
She smiled. A brisk wind was draping a fleecy band at the summit.
She hefted her suitcase and set off along St George’s Street. Immaculate, Victorian-era buildings lined the roadway. Whitewashed houses perched on the green slopes of the mountain. A huge flag flew in the grounds of Admiralty House, named on a brass plaque. At ground level, a tide of coloured and black workmen swerved nimbly around her as they headed for the station where, presumably, her train would soon reverse itself for the return journey.
‘Ah, Miss Horrocks,’ said the receptionist at the Lord Nelson Hotel. ‘Welcome to Simon’s Town. Did you have a good journey?’
‘Yes, it was wonderful.’
‘I hope you enjoy your stay.’ The receptionist examined Ella’s passport and returned it to her. ‘And don’t hesitate to ask if there’s anything you need. The best way to see the town is on foot.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’ll be quite safe, my dear, walking on your own. We have no vagrants round here any more.’
And very few permanent residents among the workforce either, thought Ella later, as she watched the continuing exodus from a pair of ceremonial gates towards the railway station. This was the daily grind of an evicted community.
She wandered into a well-proportioned, empty square lined with palm trees. A low wall led down to the shallows of the bay, and a scattering of yachts and speedboats moored in the lee of the mountain. Beyond, the superstructures of naval vessels reared between the stone buildings of the dockyard. She sat on the wall and dangled her feet. The afternoon sun glinted off the water. Wind rustled the palms, snapped the flags and delivered a refreshing tang to her nose.
It was exquisite – and yet unsettling at the same time.
Perhaps, she thought, as she hurried back to the hotel along the quiet street, there’d been too much to digest in a single day, from the drama of Table Mountain to the dainty but reduced town at the end of the peninsula where all the tea rooms she passed were resolutely white.
South Africa? Dad had tried to sum it up for her.
Beautiful. Welcoming. He hesitated, then smiled. Defiant.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Sam is newly energised by the prospect of leaving. There’s a spring in his step. He’s applied for a passport without arousing suspicion. Apparently, the authorities have no issue with young people travelling abroad provided they don’t cause trouble when they return home. Freedom must not be imported along with souvenirs.
Other young people are off, too.
Vera’s daughter, Sandra, has gone to Johannesburg, where she hopes to make it as an actress, and then be plucked by Hollywood, where fame and fortune surely await. Vera shrugs and says drama is in the family. Any path to the outside world is worth a try, even that chosen by the Phillips girl who is still missing. No one talks about her any more.
‘I don’t want to leave you, Ma,’ Sam often murmurs to me as we climb a dusty track to a vantage point above the blocks, where there’s a glimpse of the sea.
‘Don’t be silly. If you find something you love, you should cherish it. And pursue it – even if it means leaving what you know.’
I once imagined leaving.
Home. Family. Country.
The arum lilies that bloom in winter, the orange clivias that light up the spring.
Should I tell Sam?
Do I have the right to keep his father secret from him for the rest of his life? It would mean for ever denying the man who shaped him, a man far finer than poor, broken Piet. There ought to be no debate here. My loss – even if it pierces me when the wind shifts or I catch David in my son’s eyes – must have no bearing.
Sam should know the true identity of his father.
David should be told he has a son.
‘They offer apprenticeships in England, Ma,’ Sam said more cheerily, as he led us back down into Ocean View. ‘Would they take foreigners, do you think?’
Any connection abroad, however slim, would be vital for Sam. How their father–son bond developed would be up to them. And to Elizabeth Horrocks. I watched Sam swinging his arms, he was excited but trying not to show it. It’ll be a shock, of course, when I first tell him. But perhaps it will confirm a niggling suspicion he might have had for years. I tried to shield him from Piet’s accusations, but he must have wondered why his father would call me a cheat.
I paused and took a last look at the silvery line of the Atlantic breaking towards Noordhoek beach. We never hear the sound of the waves, even if the wind is in our direction.
I feel out of place in Ocean View.
Has Sam felt like that all his life?
Chapter Sixty-Three
The breeze eased the following day, allowing the heat to hover, unmoving, over the town. Remnants of cloud dissolved from Simonsberg peak. Ella grabbed her hat and notebook and headed out.
Walk along St George’s, beside the high stone wall, and stop beneath one of the pylons of the old aerial ropeway. Look up to follow its route on the mountain.
Ella halted and looked up.
To the left, above the highest of the houses, you’ll see the rectangular wards of the Royal Naval Hospital – provided they haven’t been swallowed by fynbos.
Ella grinned. There they were. Still visible despite burgeoning vegetation.
She crossed the road, climbed up a set of steps, reached Cornwall Road, and then puffed up a sloping drive past a boarded-up guardhouse. Shrubs bearing stiff, conical blooms grew with abandon between the buildings. Grass erupted from crevices in the tarmac.
‘It’s been closed for over ten years,’ the receptionist said with a curious glance when Ella enquired on her way out. ‘There’s nothing worth seeing. Rather visit our museum.’
Several of the wards had been converted into accommodation and their verandahs enclosed, with deckchairs angled to enjoy the view. But there were other buildings on the site that were unoccupied and heavily bolted. Peering through a dusty window, Ella spotted an overhead pulley arrangement.
The laundry. And poking through the growth were the remains of a trolley system that connected the lower set of wards with the upper, probably for transporting food or stores. She ducked as a pair of chattering birds swooped over her head.
You won’t believe the variety, El!
Sugarbirds with tails like streamers. Tiny sunbirds, coloured like jewels.
‘Can I help you?’ an elderly black man came around the side of the building. ‘This is navy land.’
‘I’m sorry, am I trespassing?’
The old man grinned. ‘A little bit. Are you looking for something, ma’am?’
Ella examined him. Old but clean khaki clothes. Perhaps he was the caretaker.
‘I’m looking for someone, actually. A nurse who served here during the war.’
The man shook his head. ‘The place closed a long time ago. They all went back to England.’
‘There was a nurse from Simon’s Town who worked here.’
‘Only English nurses here, ma’am.’
‘Didn’t any … local … people work here at all?’
‘There were cleaners,’ he shrugged. ‘And kitchen help.’
‘I see.’
‘You should go back now, ma’am,’ the man nodded at her kindly. ‘Sometimes the baboons bother folk up here.’
‘Thank you,’ Ella smiled. ‘Goodbye.’
A pattern began to emerge.
The following day, the post office on St George’s Street claimed that it had no reliable forwarding addresses for the residents who’d been evicted from Simon’s Town. Records were still in the process of being gathered because they could have gone to any one of several areas, the bored clerk behind the counter said – Ocean View, Grassy Park or one of the other townships on the Cape Flats. The young lady should enquire there. Or she could telephone the hundreds of Ahrendtses listed in the telephone directory, bearing in mind that many poorer families could not afford a telephone. The fact that the person in whom she was interested may have married and now be living under another surname was a further obstacle.
A pattern of polite interest, polite dismissal.
The local history group, while charming and eager to help, had no records of staff at the Royal Naval Hospital. They were lodged back in Britain, they said. But in any event, no mixed-race nurse could have served at the hospital. Ella’s father must have been mistaken. Perhaps she was a cleaner, they suggested apologetically. Or a washerwoman in the laundry.
Where, Ella changed tack, might a non-British nurse have gone when the hospital closed?
Well, there were any number of hospitals in the Cape Town area. If she was coloured, then probably to the Cape Flats, the vast plain accommodating the city’s non-white population. But certain areas were restricted. And Miss Horrocks would struggle to be allowed access to government employment records for a private enquiry.
Now, would Miss Horrocks like to join the committee for tea? They were keen to hear about her father’s naval record. Simon’s Town dockyard had repaired over 170 warships during the war. Their crests were painted on the dry dock wall, closed to the public, of course. But they could check on her father’s vessel from their list.
Durban
Achilles
Dorsetshire
Cumberland
Ella headed along St George’s Street beyond the end of the shops, and up a slight incline. The occasional car passed by. Neat houses, set in well-tended gardens, looked out over the bay.
Keep going, past where the dockyard wall runs out. Look out for the white pillar of the lighthouse. You’ll come to a tiny fishing village, above a beach with egg-shaped rocks protruding from the sand.
Get there early, when the sun is less fierce, and the cormorants are skimming the waves.
It’s where I told Louise I loved her …
Ella turned down a road marked Seaforth.
There might once have been fishermen, but no longer. Derelict remains were being overtaken by rampant growth or cleared to make way for smart new houses. She crossed a stretch of grass and climbed down to the deserted beach. Low tide. She took off her shoes and wandered towards the water. Shells, fragmented by the surf, etched a necklace on the tideline. The water was cool and startlingly clear. Tiny fish darted past her feet. Next time she’d bring her swimsuit. She could change in one of the bushy copses.
I love you, my darling.
But how can we …
‘Miss Horrocks?’ The head of the history group called back to say that the False Bay Hospital, on the slopes above Admiralty House, might be able to advise about Louise Ahrendts’s current employment. It would have been the logical destination for a nurse looking for local work ten years ago, especially if, as Miss Horrocks insisted, she’d served at the prestigious naval hospital.
But before that came the South African Navy, in the person of a suspicious public relations officer who appeared after she enquired at the Queen Victoria gate.
‘Why do you want to know about the RNH and its staff?’ he demanded in thickly accented Afrikaans. ‘The place closed years ago, after the handover of Simon’s Town to South Africa.’
‘I’m so sorry to bother you,’ Ella smiled winningly. ‘But I’m trying to trace a nurse who served there before it was closed.’
‘Well,’ he scratched his head, ‘we’ve got no records of Royal Navy staff. You should have checked before you left England, ma’am.’
‘But when the hospital was closed, the local staff would have been given some sort of compensation, surely?’ She hesitated. ‘As part of the Handover Agreement?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘My father was in the Royal Navy,’ Ella paused and chose her next words with care. ‘He was aware of the terms of the Agreement.’
‘Are you looking to make a claim, miss?’
‘No,’ Ella laughed, with as much humour as she could muster. ‘I was simply hoping you might have the contact details of those who were let go. To help me find this particular nurse.’
He rose and went around the desk and opened the door.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m not able to provide that kind of information.’
‘I see. Thank you for your time.’
His eye fell upon her camera and he shook his head.
‘You mustn’t take photos of navy installations, ma’am, even those in view around the coastline.’ He went on to say that such photographs would be a breach of security and could result in her being detained under various laws pertaining to the fight against Communism.
‘Now, you have a pleasant holiday, Miss Horrocks. Go to Cape Point and see where the Indian and Atlantic oceans meet. Watch for dolphins in the bay. This is the best time to visit.’
Ella told herself it was early days. She ought not to overreact to the polite rebuff as soon as she mentioned she was looking for a non-white; or the sense that she was interfering in matters she couldn’t hope to understand and which ought not to concern her. Worse, though, was a realisation that history – the stuff she’d chafed against at university for being too distant and too boring – was being erased here, in plain sight and within living memory. Anything that pre-dated apartheid or clashed with its central goal of separation was being diminished. Whether it was a single evicted woman or an entire community, they were being purged from the public record as if their contribution was as insubstantial as the mist that hovered and then dissolved above the sea every morning.
Have a pleasant holiday, she grumbled to herself as she walked back through the Queen Victoria gate. Stop asking questions.
At least they couldn’t dictate what she read.
War log
48 degrees 10 minutes north, 16 degrees 12 minutes west
I don’t hate the Bismarck but I can’t deny this is revenge. Bitter, bloody revenge.
For HMS Hood, for HMS Royal Oak. For
Tompkins, Owen and Nott on Achilles. And so many more.
If this is what it takes, we will finish the job.
‘Your tea, Mis
s Horrocks.’
The hotel’s coloured waiter set down a tray as she sat on the hotel’s verandah with her reading. Freshly baked scones nestled in a small wicker basket. Unlike the officious navy man or the bored postal clerk, he’d been unfailingly concerned, and warned that she shouldn’t spend too much time in the sun at midday, or walk around on her own after dark. Skollies, he said, with a glance up the mountain. No respect, ma’am.
‘Thank you. That looks delicious.’
She watched as he went inside.
How do you deal with a place where prejudice and generosity rub so closely together?
You have a job to do.
The letters were in her bag. Dad was counting on her. If the False Bay hospital proved a dead end, she would move on. The hospitals and clinics in the coloured areas would be next.
But first, Ricketts Terrace.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Sam walked along the road towards town. He’d just finished a job in Murdoch Valley, above the winding route that led to Smitswinkel Bay and Cape Point. Sam loved that part of the coast. It was wilder than the town side, with huge sandy cliffs that sometimes shed great chunks into the sea. He liked watching the penguins that lived in the bush above Boulders Beach and waddled into the sea every morning to hunt for fish far out in the bay. Lumpy seals, basking on the offshore rocks, occasionally lumbered into the water to chase them as they passed.
There might be more work at the same house, a wardrobe that needed repairing, so Sam had promised to go back the next day. It wasn’t much, and not very demanding, but any work was better than no work at this stage. He needed to save as much as possible to take with him to England, for that was now his preferred destination. He’d written letters enquiring about apprenticeships, and there’d been a reply telling him that he could present himself and perhaps there would be an opportunity if he was found to be good enough. He’d made sure to say he was coloured. A white South African applying wouldn’t have had a chance.
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