Lettah's Gift Page 5

  ‘I appreciate your efforts, Mr Dlamini. Fort Rixon seems to be shaping up as my only realistic chance.’

  Dlamini hesitates. He drums his fingers on his desk. ‘Look, I have the name of this woman. If I can find a spare moment I’ll make some enquiries. I know a few people in government departments around the country. My counterpart in Harare, for example, could be persuaded to conduct a search. I’ll make some phone calls. You never know, she might be listed in a Welfare Department branch in some corner of the country.’

  ‘I’ll be happy to pay you for your trouble.’

  Dlamini gives me a tired stare. ‘I won’t pretend to quibble about your offer, Mr Cole. What you are prepared to pay me to do my job is up to you. Life has become such that few Zimbabweans will do anything without some additional incentive. This is how we survive.’

  He walks me to the door. We shake hands again.

  ‘Good luck, Mr Cole,’ he says.

  Leaving Tredgold House I’m imbued with a strange confidence that I know is unfounded. It’s simply a reaction to the way I’ve been received so far. Here, my foibles and failures lie safely concealed on another continent. I bask in the queer realisation that people like Ruby and Dlamini appear to see me as someone who carries an aura of competence.

  With time to kill, I cruise around the city, astonished at just how familiar everything is – the wide streets lined with jacaranda or flamboyant trees harking back to a time when a wagon and team of oxen could be turned around in one manoeuvre; the old landmarks – Charter House, Bulawayo Club, City Hall with its classical columns and Art Deco clock tower. One after the other, these colonial relics make forty years seem a day. But the familiarity fades as I drive up past the railway station and cooling towers towards the townships. Past bustling taxi ranks, squalid with refuse. Healthy kids smile from billboards advertising Mazoe orange juice and Bata shoes, a far cry from the ragged barefoot urchins below. The part of Bulawayo whites avoided in the old days. Foreign to me then, as it is now. The streets choked with people. Women trudging along as though in slow motion, babies on their backs. Men in broken shoes sauntering by, faces shining with sweat. Cyclists on creaky bicycles, one holding a transistor radio to his ear as he peddles away. An old man in a patched jacket wearing a conical lampshade as a hat. The din of shouted conversations. A phalanx of policemen in combat fatigues striding towards the station, swinging long batons. The crowds part, like dense shoals of fish making way for a shark. Two female constables bring up the rear, also swinging batons. They chat and laugh, like any women out on a stroll.

  No shark-like menace in me, apparently. At a bus depot my car is suddenly enveloped; nervously I inch forward through a sea of bodies. I jump when someone slaps the car’s roof. Playfully, one hopes. Forty years now seems an eternity. I surreptitiously push down the door lock with my elbow, at the same time feeling a growing irritation at my paranoia. I chide myself: this is Africa. Crowded, noisy. Chaotic.

  IV

  Hazel and my mother go back a long way. They were the same age and close friends from childhood. I remember a lively woman, always bright and cheerful. Naturally beautiful; auburn-haired and fair-skinned with violet eyes. The only white person I knew who proclaimed herself to be African. She had a little curio shop-cum-tearoom on the main road in Que Que that never did very well because the tourist trade at that time was too small. Her parents farmed in the upper Insiza River Valley, not far from Whitestone. They were among those few farmers Errol and Lydia knew personally who were killed in the war. Ambushed at the gate to their farm one night after attending a function at the Fort Rixon Club.

  She was a regular presence at Sunnyside. As far as white women went in Rhodesia, Hazel cut an eccentric figure; she wore brightly coloured kaftans, fezzes and other exotic attire; she didn’t shave her armpits and occasionally braided her hair like an Ndebele maiden. I remember once she painted her hands with henna. A weirdo before weirdos. Like Lydia, she smoked liked a chimney. I was besotted with her. If ever there was a damsel of my boyhood dreams it was chain-smoking, hairy-armpitted Hazel.

  Childless, unmarried, I suppose she lavished her maternal affections on Max and me. She was fascinated by what made boys tick and amused by our idiotic rivalry. To my chagrin, she seemed to like Max more. She loved his relentless determination, the way he fanatically honed his skills, spending mindless hours dribbling a soccer ball between chairs out on the front lawn or bowling at the stumps my father painted on the garage wall. She would pitch up at Que Que Junior School to watch him play soccer. He always scored goals and Hazel’s cheers could be heard above those of the parents on the sidelines. She would come to my games too, more, I think, for a chuckle than the promise of any Peléan spectacles on my part. As a player I tended to direct operations from a largely stationary position on the field. And when a rare opportunity came for me to deliver, I’d cock up. A cross kick would find me unmarked in front of the goal. I’d let fly with an almighty kick, miss the ball completely, and land on my backside. Howls of dismay from my teammates. Groans from the parents. And out of the corner of my eye, Hazel almost collapsing with mirth on the sideline.

  In dress and manner, Hazel was a Rhodesian anomaly. She was also that most suspect of creatures – a liberal. She harboured crackpot notions of racial equality and freedom for all. People shook their heads behind her back. But she was bright and articulate, hard to beat or belittle in an argument. She and my father used to argue a lot, playfully. You might have thought they’d have little to argue about, given Errol’s own liberal leanings. I think both of them just enjoyed the intellectual stimulation, though I remember her exclaiming once: ‘Oh, Errol! You’re so exasperating! What do you really believe in?’ My father seemed perplexed by the question.

  Since theirs was a friendship that had carried through from childhood, Lydia and Hazel knew each other intimately and never felt any need for pretences. I remember how they always chaffed each other, giggling like adolescents, each giving as good as they got. Close, like sisters. She almost seemed part of the family; she accompanied us to functions at the sports club or on picnics at Sebakwe Poort or Dutchman’s Pool. Although I have no recollection of any antagonism between her and my parents, there must have been a falling out during this time at Que Que. When we moved to Salisbury and Bulawayo we saw Hazel only occasionally, once or twice a year. And after we moved down to South Africa we saw no more of her. For a while she used to send us a card every Christmas. Then she stopped. The memories of her began to fade and, like Lettah, there came a time when she belonged to another life.

  If Hazel graces my memory as a sweet damsel, Vic Baldwin lurks as a brute. He had a big cattle ranch called Thorn Drift south of a range of hills called the Great Dyke, a fifty-kilometre drive over rough dirt roads from Que Que. My father had become acquainted with Vic through his work as a Connex extension officer. Once in a while we would spend a weekend on the ranch. As we pitched up in front of the Baldwin’s crude rambling homestead, out would come burly, bristle-haired Vic with his booming voice, followed by his timid wife, Iris, and four rough, bristle-haired sons. Lots of loud laughter and hearty banter. Vic always pulled the same stupid trick when he shook hands with Max and me. He’d crush our hands in his big paw and keep on pumping away. ‘Ow! Let go,’ he’d cry in a high-pitched girly voice. His house was full of dead animals, large and small, decrepit souvenirs from old hunting safaris. The profusion of horns, skins and tusks littering every room gave the place the slight whiff of carrion. The side tables in the lounge were made from chopped-off elephant feet. Especially grotesque was the dining room with its array of kudu and sable heads staring glassily from the walls. A mangy lion’s head was mounted above Vic’s place at the head of the table. Its jaws were parted in what was meant to be a snarl, but it looked more like it was about to eject a fur ball. But the worst for me was the miserable vervet monkey he kept chained to a pole in the dusty backyard next to the kitchen. At the top of
the pole was a little box with a hole in it, the monkey’s only shelter from the elements and the stones Vic’s boys threw at it.

  The boys’ names were Hugo, Todd, Martin and Cecil – Thpethal Thethil, as his brothers called him because of his lisp. They were tough, barefoot, bush-wise – typical farm boys. While Vic and Iris entertained my parents, this coarse foursome would whisk Max and me, the townies, off into the bush. It usually ended in me copping some good old bullying. Hugo, the oldest, was the worst. While the others held me down, he’d pee all over me and then roll me around in the dirt. He rubbed my face in wet cowpats. I had a wild temper and would scream and struggle in helpless fury. Great entertainment value. They went easy on Max because he had the nasty habit of fighting back. And Max never did anything to stop them picking on me because it was normal to bully younger boys, and he had always been partial to doing a bit of it himself.

  Bullying came easy to the Baldwin boys. After all, they were taught by an expert. They lived in fear of Vic. Prone to frightening rages, Vic flogged them unmercifully for the smallest things. Our visits to the ranch always ended up with at least one of them getting a serious hiding. Once our two families travelled in tandem up to Kariba for a holiday. All I remember of that trip is Vic’s frequent stops to cut a stick to hit his sons with.

  The beatings were not confined to his sons. I discovered this during a weekend visit to Thorn Drift. On our arrival there was the customary loud merriment from Vic; the usual bone-crushing handshakes and girly voice begging Max and me to let go. Vic had bought a new rifle and was keen to break it in. So us men and boys spent the afternoon blasting away at empty paraffin cans perched on a fence near to where the monkey was chained. The poor creature sat shivering in its little box on top of the pole, nattering away to itself in terror. Naturally, when it came to marksmanship, Vic and his boys put the Coles to shame. Vic guffawed at our abysmal efforts. The rifle was so heavy I had to rest it on a tree stump; the kick left a bruise on my shoulder that lasted weeks.

  After the shooting practice, we gathered under a marula tree at the front of the house for a braai. Servants started the fire; they brought drinks for the grown-ups. The boys ran around playing games in the gathering darkness. Then Vic’s headman approached through the gloom, hat in hand. He said something to Vic in Shona. Vic got up from his chair, excused himself and went off with the headman. Vic’s sons told Max and me to shut up and follow them. We snuck around through some bush and came up behind the tractor shed. There, hidden by some trees, we could see all the farm workers and their families gathered in front of the shed. A hurricane lamp glowed on the ground, lighting everyone’s faces from below.

  Vic was standing to one side with the headman. He had a long quirt called a sjambok in his hand. He was talking in Shona. The assembled people listened quietly, their eyes downcast. Then Vic barked an order and the headman called out some names. Five boys, none older than twelve, stepped forward fearfully. Hugo whispered to Max and me that they had been caught stealing fruit. One by one they were made to bend over while Vic thrashed them, four to six strokes each according to age. He took huge swipes, pausing between each stroke. The smaller boys had to be held still by the headman. The air rang with their cries and the moans of anguish from the families forced to watch. It seemed to go on forever. Vic’s sons’ eyes gleamed as they watched. While the last boy, the smallest of the group, was being flogged, a woman, presumably his mother, ran forward and stood between him and Vic, begging him to stop. Vic bellowed at her to move. She refused, so he laid into her, lashing her across the legs and shoulders in a wild fury. The way she hopped around shrieking made Vic’s sons giggle. Then a man leapt forward and grabbed Vic’s arm. There was a tussle. I could hear Vic panting and swearing loudly. Bloody black bastard this and Kaffir that. The man just held Vic’s forearms and glared into his eyes. Vic roared with fury. Then the man let go and just stood there, resigned to what was coming. Vic dropped the sjambok and went berserk. He punched and kicked the man and the man just took it until he fell to the ground, groaning. Vic went on kicking him until he was exhausted. Hunched over with his hands on his knees, he ranted at the assembled people. Then he picked the man up by the scruff of the neck and shoved him in the direction of the road. He kicked the woman’s backside and gestured for her to follow the man. The woman and the boy, and two other children, joined the man and they made off into the darkness, the children crying.

  When Vic rejoined my parents at the braai he behaved as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. If anything, he appeared more jovial than usual. I wondered what my father thought of his skinned knuckles.

  We had many other farmer friends, none of whom were brutes. But I couldn’t rid myself of the sight of Vic kicking that man on the ground. Or of the way he took his time flogging the boys, or of that woman hopping around, shrieking. My eyes had been opened for the first time to another side of the world I lived in.

  It’s a mystery that Hazel and Vic live under the same roof. I can only imagine that it comes down to expedience; elderly whites in Zimbabwe, whose income has been reduced to nothing by inflation, taking practical measures to survive.

  Hazel’s house in Sable Avenue is set among granite kopjes luxuriant with wild fig trees in a typically large garden. I arrive around noon and park in the shade of a spreading flamboyant tree flanking the driveway, climb the stone steps to the front door and knock. The shrill whine of insects and chirruping of birds seems deafening as I wait. The heat is oppressive, heavy; my shirt is damp with sweat. I notice a gardener nearby scrubbing the walls of the swimming pool with a long-handled brush. He calls across that I should knock again. He taps his ear. ‘No good,’ he says.

  I knock again, louder this time. The door opens. Momentarily, I experience the weird feeling that I’m dreaming. Before me stands Hazel – not the aged Hazel I was expecting to see, but the young Hazel of Que Que, so long ago. The same auburn hair and quizzical violet eyes, the haughty aquiline nose, the clean strong line of her jaw. Alluring in a floral bikini top with a pale blue sarong around her waist. African bangles on her arms, fair skin peeling on the shoulders – Hazel was always reckless with the sun. I stand there speechless.

  ‘You must be Frank. My mother’s just been telling me about you. I’m Clara – Hazel’s daughter.’

  A Scots accent. A few tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes suggest she is older than she looks. Mid-thirties perhaps.

  ‘Clara? My God, I thought I was in a time warp. You look just –’

  ‘Like my dear old mother?’ An exasperated smile.

  We shake hands. Clara looks past me at the gardener cleaning the pool.

  ‘Jeremiah! Are you nearly finished?’

  ‘Nearly finished, missus,’ the gardener calls back.

  Clara turns back to me. ‘This bloody heat’s killing me. Come in. The old fogies are in the lounge.’

  She leads me inside to a lounge adorned with African craft – masks and shields, drums, straw mats and batik wall-hangings. A huge granite boulder spotted with white and orange lichen, part of one of the kopjes outside, protrudes through one wall. A fan on the ceiling blows a blue fog of cigarette smoke towards me.

  I recognise Hazel immediately. Despite her grey hair, now cropped short, and her stooped, thinner frame, her face has retained its somewhat haughty character. The lines and wrinkles around her eyes and mouth lend her a serene, composed air. She laughs. ‘Well I never! Frank Cole. You’re the spitting image of your father!’

  ‘Oh, great. Another look-alike,’ Clara remarks.

  ‘Hello Hazel,’ I say.

  Hazel comes forward and kisses me on the cheek and hugs me. Her body feels like a bony old bird.

  ‘Look who’s here, Vic!’ she says.

  A frail old man is seated in a chair next to a screen door that leads onto a patio. I barely recognise him. Once a hefty bloke with a big gut, Vic Baldwin now loo
ks almost emaciated. His still thick, spiky hair is cotton white; just the cowlick at the front has a yellow tinge – presumably from tobacco smoke, if the piled ashtray on the table next to him is anything to go by. With the help of a walking stick he leans forward to get up.

  ‘Please don’t get up,’ I say. ‘How are you, Vic?’

  It took an absurd act of will not to call him Uncle Vic, in the obsequious manner of my youth. Vic sinks back in his chair. He shakes hands tiredly.

  ‘Old and buggered,’ he says. He eyes me closely. ‘Hell, isn’t he a chip off the old block, Hazel?’

  Hazel pats a chair next to her. ‘Sit down, Frank. Isn’t this heat revolting! If the boy wasn’t cleaning the pool, I’d invite you for a swim. Clara, why don’t you put on some clothes and join us?’

  Clara shakes her head. ‘I’ll join you in a moment, Mom. Right now I’m going for a swim, Jeremiah or no Jeremiah.’

  She pulls open the screen door next to Vic and goes outside onto the patio. She removes her sarong and then skips down to the pool and dives in. A refreshing spectacle, I have to say. The gardener continues to brush the walls as she swims.

  ‘I wish she wouldn’t display herself like that in front of Jeremiah,’ Vic grumbles.

  ‘Oh, leave her be, Vic.’ Hazel sighs and turns to me. ‘You wouldn’t have met Clara before, would you? Of course not. She was born after you left Rhodesia. How time flies!’ She claps her hands. ‘Well, isn’t this a surprise? So you Coles are all Aussies, hey? To what do we owe the honour of your presence, dear boy?’

  ‘Pure coincidence, actually. I had no idea either of you were in Bulawayo.’

  ‘I suppose the last you remember of us is from the Que Que days. Dear me, a lot of water has passed under the bridge since then, hasn’t it, Vic? I bought this place back in the seventies, when I moved from Que Que. I was lucky. In those days people were leaving in droves. I got this house for a song. Didn’t I, Vic?’