“Well, where is she?”
“I’ll see if I can find her.” I left Penelope on the doorstep — it may have been rude but there was no way I was going to let her into the house — and walked around to the back. Zan was powering up and down our swimming pool. It’s really too small for her, she spends most of her energy doing tumble turns, but she craves the exercise, and she swims every day no matter how cold it is. I told her her mother was out front. She grimaced.
“I can tell her you don’t want to see her if you like,” I said. “Or I can say you’re not here.”
She stood in the water, panting from her exertions. “I haven’t seen her since Christmas,” she said. “I just can’t bear it. She’s always drunk by midday.”
“Xanthe!” We both turned to see Penelope tottering over the lawn toward the pool. “Xanthe! My poor darling! I’ve come to fetch you.”
“Hello, Mom,” Zan said.
“You can stay with me, dear,” Penelope said as she got to the edge of the water. “You don’t have to stay with your father or Martha. We’ve got a wonderful pool, you know that.” She squatted down on her ample haunches. She was wobbling alarmingly. “You can come along with me now. I’ll send Jimmy over to bring your things later.”
“No, Mom,” Zan said. “I want to stay here.”
Penelope turned to me. “Can you leave us alone, please?” she demanded haughtily.
I began to withdraw when Zan stopped me. “Wait, Martha. There’s no need for you to go anywhere. I’m staying here.”
“But Xanthe,” Penelope cooed, “I miss you so much, dear.”
“Mom. Go home,” Zan said. “I’ll come and see you next week before I go to London.” With that she pulled her goggles down over her eyes and set off at a powerful crawl up the pool.
“Zan!” Penelope tottered after her, but Zan turned and Penelope ran back along the pool the other way. Zan was swimming faster than Penelope could move in her high heels. Penelope eventually figured this out and tottered around to the end of the pool. As Zan touched the edge, Penelope bent down to grab her wrist. I don’t know what Penelope was thinking of, but the result was inevitable. Zan tumbled, Penelope lost her balance and fell in with an enormous splash. It was the deep end, and she sank. Zan realized immediately what had happened, swam back and grabbed her mother, dragging her to the steps at the edge of the pool.
I somewhat reluctantly offered her my arm to drag her out. The poor woman was sobbing. Zan and I took her into the house, and Zan got her out of her wet things. There was then the problem of what to put her into, but I had the idea of digging out some of Neels’s old clothes. He’s a big man, but even his pants were tight around her waist, although his shirt came down to her knees. As quick as we decently could we packed her into her car, and her driver took her back to Constantia.
Poor Zan. Poor Penelope. But it was pretty funny.
Will he call me sometime? I wish we had made some kind of arrangement to see each other again. Discussed our relationship, such as it is. I don’t know whether he will want to see me again, and I can’t stand the thought that he won’t.
August 17
Neels flew off to London today to talk with his bankers about the Herald takeover. It’s been a really unpleasant few days. We didn’t mention Beatrice again, or the Laagerbond. In fact we have barely exchanged a word. But I made damn sure Beatrice isn’t going with him to London. She’s flying back to the States tomorrow.
And I’m going to Jo’burg tonight. Just for one night.
I’m beginning to lead a secret life; secret even from this diary. I find it strangely thrilling. It is difficult to edit my thoughts when writing this. I’m pretty sure no one has read the diary yet, but I can never guarantee that they won’t. It’s probably stupid to write it at all. But it has helped me get my life in some kind of perspective, and God knows it needed that. I’ve just reread the first page; it brings back how desperate I felt then. I still do feel that way a lot of the time. Things are bad, but there’s hope. There’s always hope.
And there’s Jo’burg tonight.
August 18
Jo’burg was wonderful. He was wonderful. Even though it was only one night, it was worth it.
We so nearly got caught. I saw Roger Temple, one of those smug guys who work for Anglo-American, get out of an elevator when we were getting into it. Fortunately he was wrapped up in conversation with the businessmen he was with. I’m amazed he didn’t recognize me, it’s only a couple of months since we sat opposite each other at the Jamesons. We were probably stupid to risk meeting there. But I’m so glad we did.
Will we see each other again? We didn’t talk about it. I wanted to ask him at the end, when we were saying goodbye. But that would just raise a whole new set of questions about the nature of our relationship, the impossibility of it all, the fact that the whole thing is mad, crazy, stupid and has no future. I didn’t want to think about all that. I just wanted to enjoy every moment with him.
Do I feel guilty? Let’s not ask that question either.
My heart is singing.
21
Calder could tell the woman sitting opposite was Cornelius van Zyl’s daughter. She was tall with his square jaw and his blue piercing eyes surrounded by crows’ feet. She also had his broad shoulders, but her body was lean and sinewy, angles rather than curves. She was wearing tight jeans and a light sweater, her blonde hair was cut short, revealing ears that were pierced with three sets of gold earrings. Calder calculated that she must be in her early forties, but apart from the wrinkles around her eyes, she looked younger.
They were in a restaurant on the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront, a large redeveloped area of wharves, shops, restaurants, yachts and fishing boats. The wharf in front of them was heaving with the tourists and citizens of Cape Town, almost all of them white, enjoying the late-autumn sun. A cacophony of music drifted in from the open windows as gospel singers, a saxophonist and a group of four electric guitarists wearing kilts launched a combined assault on the crowd. Behind it all were the glass and steel towers of the city centre, and behind them Table Mountain, a long high wall of grey, pale in the soft sunlight, supporting its mysterious plateau 3,000 feet above the city.
Calder had caught his first glimpse of it that morning, when he had looked up from his airline breakfast to see the great mountain silhouetted black in the gunmetal-blue dawn light, rising like an island out of a broad sea of white cloud which stretched out to the jagged profile of more mountains to the east. As the plane drew nearer he could see the cloud moving and swirling about the summit, like waves hitting a rocky shore. Now, seven hours later, it had all burned away to leave the sky bright blue and the mountain shimmering.
Still feeling muzzy from the broken sleep of his flight, Calder squinted at the menu, trying to decide between springbok pie and ostrich. In the end he went for the springbok. Zan chose pasta.
‘So you’re the only van Zyl to stay on in South Africa?’ Calder said.
‘That’s right,’ Zan replied. She had a much more distinctive South African accent than her siblings or her father. ‘I like it here, especially Cape Town. You have to admit, it’s a beautiful city.’
‘It certainly beats mid-winter in London,’ Calder agreed.
‘I know. I spent a year there and the long nights got me down. That, and the way everyone wore black; it’s the last thing you need in such a grey country. I was supposed to be studying at the LSE but I spent most of my time doing my bit for the struggle. I dropped out after the first year and went to Mozambique for a spell. It was all very exciting, but when we won and Mandela came to power I decided to come home. A free South Africa was what we had all been fighting for, after all.’