Lettah's Gift Read online

  Vic cups his ear.

  Hazel almost shouts: ‘I said, I got this house for a song!’

  Vic grunts. ‘Fifteen thousand dollars. You know what you can buy for $15,000 now? Bugger all. Not even a used toilet roll.’

  ‘Dear me, Vic, the comparisons you make!’ Hazel gestures at the big boulder protruding into the room. ‘Isn’t it clever the way they designed this house, Frank?’

  ‘It’s lovely.’

  Vic snorts. ‘Lovely? Lovely? A stupid bloody rock sticking into your house? Ridiculous, if you ask me.’ Hazel frowns at him. He sighs. ‘But I suppose everyone to their own taste. So, tell me, Frank, what are you doing with yourself these days?’

  Vic’s eyes acquire a hint of incredulity as I summarise the ins and outs of life as a Rottnest Island bus driver.

  ‘To each his own,’ he says. ‘ How’re your folks? Haven’t heard from them in ages. When last did you hear from them, Hazel?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know . . . we lost touch during the war years, I think. That’s right, shortly after I moved to Bulawayo. Before Clara was born. God, was it that long ago?’

  I fill in the spaces of the blank years. When I talk about my mother’s death, Hazel’s eyes cloud.

  ‘It’s been tough on Dad,’ I say. ‘He took a big knock. We all did.’

  Hazel buries her face in her hands. ‘I’m so sorry to hear about your mother. I had no idea.’

  Vic nods. ‘Ja, man. Just shows you, people should keep in touch.’

  Hazel gets up and leaves the room.

  ‘Shame,’ Vic says. ‘Hazel and your mom used to be close.’

  Hazel returns, blowing her nose in a handkerchief. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, clearing her throat. ‘I wasn’t expecting such bad news. Would you like a drink? Vic likes a beer at midday.’

  ‘A beer would be nice.’

  She turns to go but Vic stops her. ‘Sit, woman, for God’s sake! What do you employ bloody servants for?’ He turns to the kitchen and yells, ‘Daphne!’

  A distant voice answers, ‘Nkosi.’

  ‘Bring two beers. Tshetsha!’

  ‘Yebo, nkosi.’

  Vic points to a drinks cabinet against the wall. ‘Do me a favour, Frank. Could you pour Hazel a half glass of sherry? It’s my job usually but my old legs are giving me hell today.’

  ‘It’s gout giving you hell,’ Hazel says, sitting down. ‘If you drank less beer you’d be out running marathons.’

  ‘Life’s one big marathon, woman. And I’ve finished my race.’

  Hazel laughs. ‘That’s what I love about you, Vic. Your eternal optimism.’

  I get up and fix Hazel’s drink. The maid, Daphne, enters with a tray carrying two cold quarts of beer and two glasses. She places the beers on the side tables next to Vic and me and goes back to the kitchen. Hazel lights two cigarettes and hands one to Vic. ‘You don’t smoke, do you, Frank?’ she asks.

  I shake my head. ‘Gave it up.’

  ‘Good boy,’ she says. ‘Filthy habit.’

  Vic raises his glass. ‘Well, here’s to your mother, God bless her. Cheers.’

  We drink and reminisce about the old days in Que Que, before, as Vic puts it, the kaffirs came along and ballsed everything up. Since both Hazel and Vic are hard of hearing, it is a loud conversation, with many repeated questions, at times escalating almost to shouting. In her matter-of-fact way, Hazel explains that she sold her parents’ farm in the Insiza Valley after they were killed during the war. With the proceeds she established a new craft centre opposite Central Park in Bulawayo, and when the tourist market picked up in the early eighties it became very successful – she had more demand than she could cope with. With Zimbabwe’s recent troubles, though, she’s been battling to make ends meet. I ask about Vic’s family. His wife, Iris, died of cancer years ago. The sons have all moved overseas. Hugo and Cecil are doing very well as businessmen, apparently; Todd and Martin are doing less well, though neither are bus drivers. The conversation is interrupted momentarily when Clara comes back inside through the screen door, still dripping. I catch the smell of chlorine as she moves past.

  Hazel rolls her eyes. ‘Clara! Why don’t you dry yourself off before coming inside?’

  ‘Sorry, Mom. I forgot my towel,’ Clara replies, disappearing down a passage.

  I tell them of my visit to Kwekwe. When I describe the state of our old house, Vic laughs. ‘What did you expect? That, my Aussie friend, is what kaffirs do. Bugger things up. We make, they break.’

  Vic’s body may have diminished but not his big booming mouth. A frown of irritation forms on Hazel’s forehead. She puts a finger to her lips and shushes him.

  Vic looks at me, eyes wide with mock fear. ‘Hazel’s worried about the servants reporting me to the police. You’re not allowed to call a kaffir a kaffir these days.’

  ‘One day they’ll drag you off and give you a good flogging,’ Hazel says. ‘It’s probably what you deserve.’

  Vic guffaws. ‘I’d like to see them try! I’ll call a kaffir anything I damn well like!’ From the kitchen comes the sound of an oven door opening. The smell of roast beef comes wafting through. Vic sniffs loudly, catarrhine nostrils flaring. ‘Sweet Jesus, that smells good!’

  Hazel turns to me. ‘So what brings you back, Frank?’

  I explain the reasons for my journey. When I get to the subject of Lydia’s will, Vic acquires that incredulous look in his eye again. He slaps his hands on his thighs. ‘Jesus H bloody Christ! Now I’ve heard everything! Fifty thousand Aussie dollars! God knows what that is in Zim currency. What on earth got into your dear mother’s head, man? Who ever thought of giving a kaffir that sort of money?’

  The consternation on his face makes Hazel laugh. ‘Oh, stop being such a miserable old so and so. I say, well done, Lydia. What a nice thing to have done.’

  ‘Wake up to yourself, woman! You might as well take that money and flush it down the toilet. And for what? A bloody nanny she had God knows how long ago!’ He shakes his head. ‘No, sorry, I’ve never heard of anything so damn ridiculous!’

  Daphne comes through to tell us lunch is ready. Hazel helps Vic to his feet and we carry our drinks through to the dining room. We sit at an oak table, with Vic at the head. On the wall around us are pictures of Hazel’s family and friends, including one of Errol and Lydia at their wedding, where Hazel was maid of honour. Just one photograph of Vic, Iris and their four boys taken next to the marula tree in front of their house at Thorn Drift. Clara comes in, wearing a short skirt and t-shirt, her wet hair brushed back. Vic puts his glasses on and begins to carve a small side of beef, while Hazel dishes out the potatoes and vegetables – homegrown, she explains. It seems Zimbabwe’s suburban backyards have become small subsistence farms. Vic lifts a few slices of meat between the carving knife and fork onto each plate. We pass the gravy around and eat.

  For the sake of conversation, I tell them about my drive around the city. ‘Quite amazing. Nothing seems to have changed all that much. No development – Bulawayo’s still her old self.’

  Hazel swallows a mouthful behind her hand. ‘Yes . . . and yet everything has changed. I wish you’d seen Bulawayo during Operation Murambatsvina. Parts of the city looked like a tornado went through it. The market stalls in 5th Avenue and near the City Hall – complete devastation. The shantytowns – gone, bulldozed into the ground. Mugabe’s grand plan to clean up the cities. I don’t suppose you people in Australia even heard of Murambatsvina.’

  I nod. ‘We saw a fair bit on TV.’

  ‘It means clean up filth,’ Clara says. ‘Just an excuse for Mugabe to persecute his political opposition. He knows the urban poor are against him.’

  Hazel nods. ‘Those poor people . . . it’s hard enough trying to make a living in this country. Fifth Avenue used to be a thriving market place –’

&n
bsp; ‘Ag, what are you complaining about?’ Vic interjects. ‘Those bloody market stalls were just clogging up the streets with their junk. Never paid taxes. It’s about time someone cleared them out. We never allowed it in the old days, did we?’

  Clara bursts out laughing. ‘Now I’ve heard everything! Vic seeing eye to eye with Mugabe!’

  Hazel lets out a slow breath. ‘Vic . . . Vic. No wonder this place is such a mess. First, the people had to deal with the likes of you – then Mugabe.’

  ‘Christ, they were happy when they had to deal with the likes of me. They had jobs. Money. Food in their stomachs.’

  ‘Well, you know how I feel about it. You just say things to annoy me.’ Hazel returns her attention to her food. ‘At least we’ve got the elections coming up.’

  Vic thumps his fists down on either side of his plate, knife and fork clasped upwards. ‘What is it with you and elections? You see that bastard rig every single one. Terrorise the opposition. And still you think: Ooh, the people are going to vote him out. Christ almighty. We should’ve hung him when we had him in jail.’

  ‘I’m not going to argue with you. Frank’s here. Let’s talk about something nice. Where are you staying, Frank?’

  ‘Milton Ogilvy. An old university friend.’

  Vic laughs with his mouth full. ‘Ogilvy? That shyster! His firm handled my case. Useless bastards. Bloody lost everything –’

  ‘No, they didn’t,’ Hazel cuts in. ‘They won your case. Legally, your ranch still belongs to you. It’s not the lawyers’ fault the veterans thumb their noses at the law.’

  Vic grunts. ‘How’re you surviving there at Milton’s? I hear he doesn’t drink. Never trust a man who doesn’t drink, I say.’

  Clara rolls her eyes. ‘Another original pearl of Baldwin wisdom.’

  ‘I’m sure Frank’s getting along just fine,’ Hazel says. ‘An alcohol-free stint would do you a world of good, Vic.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I said an alcohol-free stint would do you a world of good!’

  Vic points a fork at Hazel. ‘Do me a favour, woman. If I ever have to give up the grog, just put a bullet through my head, okay?’

  Hazel laughs. ‘The last of the old Rhodesians. You’re a dinosaur, Vic. When you die they’ll stuff you and stick you in a museum!’

  Vic smiles as though pleased with that prospect. ‘So, Frank, what’s your next move, boy? For all you know, this munt you’re looking for is dead and buried.’

  ‘Have I missed something?’ Clara says.

  ‘Frank has come all this way to give some old nanny 50,000 Aussie dollars.’ Vic laughs incredulously. ‘Can you bloody believe it?’ He stares upward, as if for divine help.

  Hazel waves a hand at him dismissively. ‘What Vic’s saying is that Frank’s here to deliver a generous gift of money his dear mother left in her will to a maid, Lettah, who was once part of their family.’

  Clara gives me a quizzical look.

  ‘Part of their family!’ Vic scoffs.

  I continue: ‘The last we heard of Lettah was that she’d gone back to my grandparents’ farm. I hope she’s still there. If she isn’t, maybe someone knows what happened to her.’

  ‘I still think it’s a ridiculous idea,’ Vic grumbles.

  ‘I just want to lay the matter to rest, whatever the outcome.’

  For a while we eat without speaking. Just the scrape of knives and forks and Vic’s chomping. We finish our beers. Vic rings a bell. Daphne appears and Vic asks for more beer and a glass for Clara. The beer comes and we fill our glasses. Clara takes a long swig and stifles a belch. ‘That’s the one positive thing I’ll say about Zimbabwe,’ she says. ‘The beer’s good, even if the choice is limited.’

  Vic smiles at her affectionately. ‘Now there’s something we can agree on.’

  ‘There’s something I wanted to ask you, Vic,’ I say. ‘Remember Brak Malan from Que Que? I heard he worked for you for a while. Any idea where he might be?’

  Vic puts his knife and fork down. He raises his hands in the air and begins to clap. For an uncomfortable moment I think he is mocking me. Then he laughs. ‘Brak Malan? Old Brak’s a happy clappy. Born-again. Last I heard he was up at Kariba running a camp for God-botherers.’

  ‘Brak went religious?’

  He cups an ear. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You’re saying Brak went religious?’

  ‘Ja, man. I don’t know what it is with those army blokes. Like a damn disease. I told him it was a crock when he worked for me. We had a few arguments. He buggered off eventually to preach the word. Haven’t heard from him since. Bloody waste. The bloke was a good mechanic when he stayed off the grog.’

  Hazel says: ‘Have a heart, Vic. Some of those army boys had a hard time.’

  Vic waves his hand in disgust. ‘Ag, what! Killing a few munts?’

  Clara stops eating and stares at Vic. She seems about to say something but doesn’t.

  ‘Pity Brak wasn’t a big tough guy like you!’ Hazel says.

  Vic grunts, waves his hand again and resumes eating.

  ‘When are you going to Whitestone?’ Hazel asks me.

  ‘Hopefully tomorrow, first thing.’

  ‘Would you mind terribly if I tagged along? It’s been a while since I’ve been that way. You might find me useful. I know the area and speak the lingo.’

  I shrug. ‘Fine by me.’

  Vic puts down his cutlery again. He slaps his forehead with a big sun-spotted hand. ‘Have you completely taken leave of your senses, woman? What do you want to go gallivanting around the countryside for? Haven’t you got a business to run here in Bulawayo?’

  ‘Clara’s perfectly capable of running the shop, Vic. She’s been doing it for the past year. God knows, there’s not that much to do these days anyway. It’s not as though we’re overrun by tourists.’

  ‘Clara doesn’t know her arse from her elbow! And those kaffirs who work for you are stealing you blind!’

  Clara rises abruptly from the table and leaves the room without a word. We hear a door slam down the passage.

  Hazel gives Vic a hard stare. ‘You’re being offensive now. I want you to apologise to her –’

  Vic begins to object.

  ‘No, Vic. I want you to apologise. And if I want to go to Fort Rixon with Frank, I’ll go. I don’t have to ask your permission.’

  Vic holds out his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘I’m just trying to look after you, girl. What happens if you run into a bunch of war vets, hey?’

  ‘I’ll be giving war veterans a wide birth, Vic, if that’s any consolation,’ I say.

  After lunch we move back to the lounge. We chat about mundane everyday matters: the food and petrol shortages, inflation, the flood of people leaving the country. Vic’s eyes begin to droop; soon he is snoring in his chair. I take this as a cue to leave.

  Hazel accompanies me outside. ‘Don’t mind Vic,’ she says.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting him to be any different.’

  She smiles. ‘My God, you look just like your father. What time are you leaving tomorrow?’

  ‘About seven-thirty. Are you serious about coming?’

  ‘I’ll be waiting.’

  She waves as I drive off.

  In the four years that my family lived in Bulawayo, we rented a double-storey Mexican-style hacienda in Hillside, along Percy Avenue, not far from where Hazel now resides. Driving past, the old place looks much as I remember it: terracotta-tiled roof, white stucco walls, palm trees out in front. A curious oddity, even among the eclectic array of Bulawayo’s suburban dwellings.

  Further down Percy Avenue, another strange apparition appears: a medieval castle, stone turrets and all, nestling in a big wooded estate. An utterly bizarre English fantasy plonked on African s
oil long ago when the outposts of the British Empire seemed safe and secure. When we lived in Hillside the castle was empty and served as a fabulous battleground for the neighbourhood boys, our imaginations inflamed by the Ivanhoe series on TV, with Roger Moore in the lead role. Here, pint-sized Crusaders in cardboard armour, brandishing wooden swords and shields, fought and died, shrill of voice, and lived again to fight another day.

  The castle has since been transformed into an up-market hotel. Zimbabwe seems a place of startling contradictions. Rare sprouts of improbable wealth in a vast morass of poverty. Not much in between.

  I’m dogged by a lingering anger, ignited when Vic raised his hands mockingly above his head and clapped at the mention of Brak Malan. That is the thanks Brak receives from the old Rhodesian he fought to protect and preserve. Brak and his wild comrades with the corpse in the background . . . when it comes to what soldiers must do in war – to killing – a curtain descends in me, behind which I have no desire to look. I have no idea of even how to think. All I can do is surmise that everyone is different. To some, perhaps, it’s as easy as stamping on a cockroach. To others, a weight they must bear all their lives.

  I drive up into the terraced parklands that surround the Hillside Dams, another boyhood haunt. I park under a tree and sit there with the car doors open, letting through a faint breeze. The main dam is dry; it looks to have been empty for some time; reeds and yellow grass sprout from the cracked-mud basin. Across the dams some kopjes emerge from a carpet of bush and trees. I used to explore these kopjes and once came across a beautiful frieze of San paintings – Bushman paintings, as we called them then. Kudu, eland, sable. Running hunters with bows and arrows. At the time, I had no idea how ancient the paintings were.

  The beer I consumed at lunch has made me drowsy. I close my eyes and a fitful sleep returns me momentarily to Australia. Back on my bus route around Rottnest Island, I announce drop-off points on the intercom with smart-arse aplomb. ‘Next stop, ladies and gentlemen: Nancy Cove – for you heaven-seekers. Stark Bay, for the wild ravers. Catherine Bay, for the genuine Rottnest connoisseur.’ My tourist passengers stare blankly back at me through the rear-view mirror.