Long Lies the Shadow (8 page)

Gin’s mug slams into the table. This time her tea spills from its side. She stares at the pool of it. Outside, the sky darkens to a threatening violet.

Gin forms the words. “Gabe’s baby.” It is not a question, but a realisation.

Michael nods nonetheless.

She shakes her head. “No.”

He knew this would cause her pain, but at least his words are penetrating. “There’s more,” he says, but gently. Gin stares at him uncomprehendingly. “Hannah changed her mind about the abortion.” Her mouth opens. He knows the question and carries on hurriedly, wanting to explain. “Yes,” he says quickly, “that’s why she stayed the whole year, Gin. She changed her mind. She went to Israel to have her baby.”

“You mean –”.

He shakes his head, eager to finish. He knows what she wants to know, and does not want her to think the wrong thing. Quickly now, the words rushing. “The baby didn’t live, Gin. It was stillborn. There was something wrong. Badly wrong. Hannah said its heart stopped a few weeks before she was due. She had to give birth to –,” and here he stops finally, exhales. He does not want to distress her, but he can think of no painless way to say it. “The baby was born dead.”

She makes an exclamation. An odd noise emanates from her throat. “Dead?” she says, and it sounds as if she has a cold.

He nods wordlessly.

Gin’s eyes glisten. Perhaps she is about to cry, he thinks, and, while he hates the thought of her upset, he thinks perhaps this is the release she needs. But then she sits back, her hands drop to her rounded belly, link across the top of it. Protectively. He knows where her thoughts are.

The rain has become heavy, a hard patter on the kitchen roof. Water rushes into the gutters and the air in the kitchen cools.

After a while she asks, “What was it? The child? A boy or a girl?”

“A boy,” he replies.

“Gabe had a son,” she says, staring into space.

“Yes.” He can think of nothing else to add.

“Poor Hannah, how awful. What an awful thing to have to endure.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “I think she was very brave, defying her father. You know Gabe had asked Hannah to marry him?”

Her eyes widen. “No, when?”

“Night of the school dance. Before uni.”

Gin contemplates this, her face set.

Michael is grim. “He never told me either. But apparently Hannah’s father forbade it. Said he would never allow it. That’s why Hannah got pregnant.”

“It was deliberate?”

“I think she thought then her father would come round, would change his mind, that they’d have to get married.”

“But why didn’t she?” Gin’s voice is high. “I mean, why didn’t she still come back after – after – and marry him anyhow? They could have, she could still have children. She has three now. What happened? Why did she cut him off, after all that?”

Michael shrugs. “From what she told me that day, it seems her father was furious with her. Said it was best the baby died.”

Gin is aghast. “Jacob said
that
?” Her tone is one of disbelief.

“That’s what she told me. He forbade her to see Gabe again. Told her she was better off with someone Jewish, of her own culture, who would understand her. That sort of thing.” He sighs. “She went through such a lot. So young, and all on her own. I think it was simply easier for her, after what she went through. A hell of a thing, you know. Just easier for her to cope. She must have been full of anger and grief still.”

“Poor Hannah,” reflects Gin. “And you never told Gabe?”

And there it is, the stab to his heart. No, he had not told his best friend. Hannah had made him swear to it. And Gabe had died, not knowing. They look at each other, hard rain the only sound.

Eventually he says, “So that Easter, we – me and Gabe – we argued. He was so determined, you know, so set on going to Cape Town to see Hannah again. After all those years. I don’t know what got into him…” Michael’s voice trails off. He knows now Gabe’s state of mind, the decision he faced about the Army, were part of it. “I don’t know,” he continues slowly, “I don’t know. I wanted to protect Hannah, I guess. I thought her seeing Gabe again would bring it all up for her, for both of them. Gabe was with Viv by then, Hannah getting on with her life… it wasn’t fair on Viv either. You know, what if Gabe was going to throw it all away for Hannah again? Leave Viv? I suppose I was trying to protect her too.”

Gin reaches across and takes his hand in hers. Her fingers tighten. “Poor Michael,” she says softly. “Poor Hannah. Poor Gabe.”

“Yes.” He takes his hand away and stands. He wants a cigarette, a drink even. He walks to the large pantry door at the end of the kitchen. Inside are several bottles of wine and spirits. He picks up a bottle of Australian red, then changes his mind and pulls out a bottle of whisky. Returning to the table, he pours himself a generous glass.

Gin sits impassively, watching him swirl the amber liquid in the heavy-bottomed glass.

After a large sip, he looks at her. “I was so stupid,” he says. “I was
trying to control things that weren’t mine to control. Weren’t even my business.” He takes another swig and feels it burn his throat.

It is dark outside now. The rain has steadied to a regular rhythmic drumming on the roof.

“I think you were trying to protect Gabe too,” says Gin, her voice low.

Michael puts his head in his hands at this. He feels a tremendous weariness settle on him. Ultimately, none of them, no one, not Gin, not Hannah, not Viv, and not even he, Michael, could protect Gabe from himself.

“Hello?” Viv is harassed. She balances the basket of laundry on one hip.

Nick’s voice at once cheers and unnerves her. “Usual time tomorrow?”

She can hear the grin in his voice. The walk on the beach has become somewhat of a routine for them. Every second weekend for the past few months, he had fetched her precisely at nine on the Saturday, his dog Manyanga barking excitedly in the back of his car. Viv had become almost eager to pack the girls off to Jonnie’s expensive cream house in the rich area of Constantia. It was ironic, she thought, that her ex-husband, the Indian doctor, should now be living in the formerly whites-only suburb, while she had stayed in the relatively mixed area of Kenwyn, where the houses were smaller and more compact, and the neighbours poorer. But this weekend is different.

“Is anything wrong?” Nick has heard her hesitation.

She tells him. This weekend the girls are staying at home; Jonnie is at a medical conference in Johannesburg. Initially he had said he might take the girls with him, but as the date approached, Viv had wearily heard his reluctance grow along with his excuses.

“Does it matter?” asks Nick, and she is momentarily stumped.

She has not yet mentioned Nick to her daughters. While Jonnie’s every girlfriend, however temporary, had been reported back to her in detail by Kayleigh, Viv had stayed resolutely single. Now, after all this time, she does not know how her children will react. But does
it matter? Nick has challenged her. She could take the easy way out and say they cannot be left on their own when, in fact, there have been times she had been obliged to do so, in order to see her patients and make her calls. She had never given her address to her long list of dependants; some would not have hesitated to invade her privacy, others she would not want around her home. Abbie, at least, is old enough to be left on her own. Nick will know this also, she thinks. He waits in silence now while she deliberates.

Viv feels a form of release, a knot dissolving inside her.

She agrees to their ritual, already feeling the thick sand between her toes, tasting salt on her lips. Each time Nick had taken a different route, chosen a different beach. Winter has allowed them freedom from crowds, their only company the hardiest of surfers, tackling the cold Atlantic, or other walkers suitably garbed against the freezing wind. Manyanga had been let loose to run ahead of them, occasionally looping back to leap up excitedly at Nick, bark, and then gallop ahead again, stopping to sniff at rocks, and paw at scurrying crabs.

Phone down, Viv hoists the basket onto a chair, and goes through to where Abbie and Kayleigh lie sprawled in front of the television. It feels surreal to her, this confessional. She shakes the discomfort from her shoulders and clears her throat.

He is outside promptly at nine, his knock confident and loud. A policeman’s knock, she thinks wryly, knowing she will not get to the door before her youngest. Kayleigh had taken the news somewhat better than Abbie, who had stared steadfastly ahead at the television programme after Viv had told them about Nick.

Sure enough, it is Kayleigh who is swinging open the heavy door as Viv walks down the stairs, impudently curious of her mother’s
hot date
, as she had termed it.

Bright sunshine streams into the hall.

“Well, Kayleigh, invite Mr Retief in!” Viv drops the Detective
from his title. Her daughter is suddenly coy. “Nick,” smiles Viv, moving to open the door wider. “Would you like to come in and meet my children?”

Kayleigh wrinkles a face at her mother. She hates being called a child.

Nick steps inside. The sun, as he does so, turns his dark-blond hair to gold. He looks fresh – and young – she thinks ruefully. The seven-year age gap between them has not bothered her until this moment. Now she is mindful of her teenage daughters. Will he think her too old?

Nick is smiling at Kayleigh, who has recovered her composure enough to ask him what he does.

“Kayleigh, honestly, that’s quite rude,” chides Viv, but gently.

Her daughter rolls her dark eyes at her, and flicks her jet-black locks behind her ears. Kayleigh looks very much like Jonnie. Inevitable that she should inherit his coffee-coloured skin, but her eyes, the shape of her face, and her expressions are also all her father’s.

“That’s okay,” says Nick. “I’m a policeman,” he answers.

Viv shudders involuntarily. For her, the word has remained tainted. But it is lost on her daughter, growing up in a different land, and for this Viv feels thankful.

“Would you like some tea?” asks Kayleigh, emboldened by his friendliness.

He looks briefly at Viv, the question formed.

She shakes her head quickly.

“Another time, perhaps. I’ve had a cup not long ago, but thank you.” He sounds polite.

Kayleigh giggles. They have not moved from the entrance hall. Viv picks up her bag from the table and checks inside for her keys. They are about to leave when Abbie appears. She skulks in shadow. Her eldest daughter, normally so graceful, looks sullen.

“Abbie,” says Viv, too loudly, “this is Mr Retief.”

Nick looks up. Viv sees surprise flick cross his face, and wonders why. He knows some of her life’s details now, if not the finer, rawer points. He knows that her daughters have different fathers. She has told him that Abbie’s father is dead, but not the manner of his death. He knows too that Jonnie is Indian, and a neurologist at the children’s hospital in Rondebosch, but the details of her divorce she has not found reason to divulge. On those slow and pleasant walks, she had felt unwilling to delve into sadness.

She wishes her daughter had made more of an effort to look her beautiful self. Abbie has her father’s eyes, blue and clear, that darken with emotion. And her hair curls wild and unruly, as did Gabe’s. But it is fairer, almost blonde in the sun. She stands, stooped, her hair hanging messily in front of her eyes and her slim figure hidden by a baggy jumper.

“Hello, you must be Abigail,” says Nick, in that stiff manner of his.

It strikes Viv that Nick feels awkward, that he hides a residual shyness.

Abbie nods, mumbles something barely intelligible; she rakes a hand through her hair in an ineffectual attempt to push its tangles aside.

“Oh, well, we’ll be off then, girls.” Viv’s voice sounds false to herself. “I have my cellphone. Be good. Bye.” She moves towards the still-open door.

In the early morning shadow, the mountain’s surface looks dark and cold, thin mist haunts its crevices. Nick says goodbye to the girls and follows her out. Kayleigh holds the door open, watching them walk down the cement path.

“Mom!”

Viv half-turns. It was Kayleigh who called, but it is Abbie who has exited behind them. Nick opens the gate, hooks it, and moves towards the car. Manyanga’s head lolls out the window. The dog barks with joy at Nick’s return.

“What is it, sweetie?” asks Viv, walking back to where her eldest daughter has stopped, her shoulders curved forward, and her finger in her mouth as she bites on a nail.

“Nothing, Mom,” she says.

Viv smiles at her, reaches out to push her daughter’s hair behind one shoulder.

Abbie suddenly reaches her arms around Viv and hugs her quickly. “Have a nice time, Mom,” she whispers. She glances quickly at Retief, her eyes narrowed, and then turns and hurries back into the house.

“
Ja
,” shouts Kayleigh, not to be outdone, “have a
lekker jol
, Ma! Bye!” The heavy door swings shut.

Viv apologises to Nick for her daughter’s behaviour as she buckles her belt. Manyanga’s hot breath is on her neck as the dog strains to greet her.

“No need,” he says, and orders his dog to sit down. Manyanga obeys, shifting her bulk onto the back seat, her huge brown eyes meek with chastisement.

They drive out to Hout Bay, the curve of beach sheltered by the mountains on one side, and by the peak of the Sentinel on the other. It is suitably named, sitting strong and silent, steadfastly staring out to sea. Sunlight blurs behind its buttressed bulk, waiting for the lengthening of day that will allow it to slip past the watch of the motionless sentry and seep along the shore.

“She must look like her dad,” says Nick, once they are on the sand. He throws a stick for Manyanga, who speeds away from them, her paws spitting sand.

“Yes,” says Viv, “she does.” People always take an interest in Kayleigh, her brown skin. These years on, after the ostensible end of apartheid, a mixed-race child with a white mother is still an oddity to some. It is Kayleigh’s age more than anything; at times Viv can almost see their small minds calculating the year of her daughter’s
conception. She wonders what Nick is thinking. Manyanga runs back to them, eagerly drops the wet stick in front of Nick, pants in anticipation. He picks it up and hurls it ahead of them on the deserted beach. They are still in the shadow of the mountains. The dog runs off again, her fur rippling.

“
Ja
,” he says, brushing sand from his hand, “it’s quite uncanny.”

Viv sighs with barely concealed irritation. Surely it is not that big a deal to him? He hadn’t seemed bothered by the fact she had been married to an Indian. Once it was legal to do so, of course. Apartheid laws had taken time to catch up with each other’s demise; at one point it was legal to marry outside one’s race, but still illegal to live together in the same area. Viv smiles grimly at the stupidity; she had been officially re-classified as Indian.

Nick pulls something from his pocket. “This was in Doctor Gold’s – Simon’s – wallet,” he says, handing her a small photograph.

Viv gasps softly as she looks at the aged, faded picture. It is a photograph of a young woman, squinting slightly into sunlight, her mouth slightly open as if saying something to the photographer. She stands on a beach, with her hand raised to sweep her long blonde hair away from her face, blown as it is about in the invisible wind.

Viv stares at the face. Now she understands.

Nick was talking about Abbie.

Her daughter, Gabe’s daughter, is the image of the girl in the photo, the photo of Gin.