Apologies to anyone one out there clinging on to the stormy story, but there will be a short break – should be less than a week – before I drag you back. Thank you, thank you for your company. I hope you’ll have the time to rejoin the short excerpts next week.
Meanwhile, here goes with the first of a few travel postcards to fill the gap.
We flew out of Stansted Airport today. It’s not big, and is crowded with shops, and passengers packed in like agitated beans. We spent a large chunk of our final hour there, squeezed up tight with others on a metal staircase, waiting for the steel door at the end to open. It was like being released from a can when we finally got out.
Then, like magic, we were flying in over the Danish coast. The sea was calm, the offshore turbines near the airport barely moving, and the temperatures as warm as flip flops … and Copenhagen Airport quiet and spacious.
It was a perfect evening, and tomorrow is a brand new day!
Simi tries to catch the jokes being pushed around the room. They come in snatches blown apart by the weather, some batted back by Tim and Jacobus. None of it makes any sense to her.
You know, I can’t understand this lot. Why’m I even here? Could be down Goldhawk Road right now. Picking fabrics. Chit chatting. I don’t need this. Even mad Soapy and his opera next door. I’ll take that. Anything. Just not this.
“Tim … Hansie and the lion,” Sal calls.
“Oh … not that …”
Laughter rocks the room, then drowns beneath a fresh tip of rain and wind.
“Hey …” Tim shouts, ” … gonna leave it … Hansie … this … is all over.”
Hansie holds both thumbs up, and Tim and Jacobus splash down from the table. As they return to their seats, Simi lets the fire draw her eyes into its shifting dance. When she next looks up she sees Marybelle approaching, so she holds the blanket wide, inviting her friend to join her.
“Thanks,” says Marybelle, drawing the blanket close. She smiles at Simi, lifting her chin to speak into her ear. “At least we got a bit of the speeches.”
Simi nods. “Don’t understand this farm thing,” she says, bending close to Marybelle, narrowing the space for the wind to tear the words apart.
Marybelle laughs. “Agh, it’s all politics now. You scratch my back, and I’ll let you plough my land. Don’t even think about it Simi.”
Simi nods, and asks one more question. “Are Bernard and Fred war vets?”
“In a way,” Marybelle says. “But those two were in Malaya. For you.”
“For me? I mean for who? For the UK?”
“I think so,” says Marybelle shrugging.
“Why? What is this Malaya thing?”
“Don’t ask me. I don’t know. I think the UK needed soldiers for some war somewhere so took them. Ask them.”
Malaya? Never heard of any war there. Probably not even born anyway.
Simi’s relieved when Father Norman shouts a question across the room.
The high cry from Marybelle, sounds like that of a gull riding the wind. But there’s no response from the room, so she tries again. But this time, she has barely begun when her question is swamped by a great wash of rain. Heavy and loud on the roof, it pins them all to silence. They wait, watching the sparks as Tonderai throws another log on the fire. At last the downpour passes and Marybelle tries again.
“Anyone know any stories?” she shouts.
“Stories? No way,” rumbles Jacobus. “We’ve got enough problems without stories.”
“Oh no …” someone groans. “Spare us Father Norman. Please spare us.”
“Story please!” urges Marybelle.
Simi looks around at the lack of voices.
Surely? Surely they’re stories here? I’m in Africa? I thought stories began in Africa. I think I’m going mad. London’s packed with stories. In fact … maybe there’s more Africa in London, than here? Please? Somebody? Give us a story. This rain is doing my head in.
“Right … back to that party. We’d just moved into the district. Bruce and Katania were there. I don’t think Caralee was … or she might’ve been, but only as a baby. Jambee was. That’s how we all know each other. From the farms. Hansie was bigger than me. No surprise there … Did everything better than me. But … but … hold on … ” Tim pauses. Waits for the heckling to fade. “I had a superpower.”
“What?”
“You’re kidding …”
“Yes. I was at boarding school … already … He wasn’t.”
Laughter and rain gust, and then die away.
“Hansie couldn’t beat that. I was a survivor … at five …”
“Ja,” says Jacobus. “Telling you, he was such a scrawny little kid. None of us could figure out how he survived.” He slaps Tim on the back, and jokes fall around the room, like a pack of cards thrown into the air.
Five? In a boarding school. What kind of boarding school does that? I thought they were supposed to be for the mega rich. All bowties and what not. Maybe not in this place.
The room quietens, and Simi hugs her blanket closer.
“Learned everything at that school. Taught us how to keep our heads down, eat Zambezi mud, and keep going. Reckon most of you had the same lessons. Just took you a while to catch up!”
The room laughs, and the wind snaps at the edges of the roof. Simi pulls the blanket tighter. Outside there is a cracking sound. It repeats, louder and faster, then suddenly it stops. The rain falls back to footsteps.
“Marybelle,” Simi shouts. “You need some blanket?”
“I’ll borrow some of Fred’s. Keep him warm.”
Simi watches Marybelle organise the rewrap. Two heads emerge, cocooned tight together. Tim carries on.
“We spent the next four years of school holidays on each other’s farms. When I got big enough – seven I suppose – I used to ride my bike to Hansie. Sometimes he’d come my way. But I liked his farm better. It had a dam and we could go fishing. He liked my farm better because it had kopjes and we could go climbing. Then we lost our farm. 2002 was the end of that. For us anyway. War vet time.”
“War vets? Who are they?” Simi asks.
Bernard answers. “Soldiers. Veterans from the war for independence. ‘70’s and ‘80’s.”
“Let’s not go there, hey, Bernard?” Jacobus nods at Bernard. Bernard says nothing.
“Ah …” Simi feels her body clench, indignant, her heart thumping into a revolution on behalf of ancestors she can only imagine.
“It was a mess,” Jacobus says. “Still is a mess.”
“But Jacobus … aren’t you still on your land?” The question is out, before Simi even wants to ask it.
“Ja. Only some of it hey. It was the Brits who really got it.”
“Eg me,” Tim grins, looking around the room, glasses shining in the firelight. “Anyway, this was supposed to be about Hansie. Not Zim.”
“Ja, and plenty of us lot back on the land anyway,” a voice shouts.
