To Cut a Long Story Short (2000) (18 page)

‘Nothing, thank you, master.’

Stoffel rose from his place, aware that his presence seemed to disturb her. He and Inga walked back through the township in silence, and did not speak again until they had reached their car.

‘I’ve been so blind,’ he said as Inga drove him home.

‘Not just you,’ his wife admitted, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘But what can we do about it?’

‘I know what I must do.’

Inga listened as her husband described how he intended to spend the rest of his life.

The next morning Stoffel called in at the bank, and with the help of Martinus de Jong worked out how much he could afford to spend over the next three years.

‘Have you told Inga that you want to cash in your life insurance?’

‘It was her idea,’ said Stoffel.

‘How do you intend to spend the money?’

‘I’ll start by buying some second-hand books, old rugby balls and cricket bats.’

‘We could help by doubling the amount you have to spend,’ suggested the General Manager.

‘How?’ asked Stoffel.

‘By using the surplus we have in the sports fund.’

‘But that’s restricted to whites.’

‘And you’re white,’ said the General Manager.

Martinus was silent for some time before he added, ‘Don’t imagine that you’re the only person whose eyes have been opened by this tragedy. And you are far better placed to . .
.’ he hesitated.

‘To … ?’ repeated Stoffel.

‘Make others, more prejudiced than yourself, aware of their past mistakes.’

That afternoon Stoffel returned to Crossroads. He walked around the township for several hours before he settled on a piece of land surrounded by tin shacks and tents.

Although it wasn’t flat, or the perfect shape or size, he began to pace out a pitch, while hundreds of young children stood staring at him.

The following day some of those children helped him paint the touchlines and put out the corner flags.

For four years, one month and eleven days, Stoffel van den Berg travelled to Crossroads every morning, where he would teach English to the children in what passed for a
school.

In the afternoons, he taught the same children the skills of rugby or cricket, according to the season. In the evenings, he would roam the streets trying to persuade teenagers that they
shouldn’t form gangs, commit crime or have anything to do with drugs.

Stoffel van den Berg died on 24 March 1994, only days before Nelson Mandela was elected as President. Like Basil D’Oliveira, he had played a small part in defeating apartheid.

The funeral of the Crossroads Convert was attended by over two thousand mourners who had travelled from all over the country to pay their respects.

The journalists were unable to agree whether there had been more blacks or more whites in the congregation.

W
HENEVER
R
UTH
looked back on the past three years - and she often did - she came to the conclusion that Max must
have planned everything right down to the last detail - yes, even before they’d met.

They first bumped into each other by accident - or that’s what Ruth assumed at the time - and to be fair to Max it wasn’t the two of them, but their boats, that had
bumped into each other.

Sea Urchin
was easing its way into the adjoining mooring in the half-light of the evening when the two bows touched. Both skippers quickly checked to see if there had been any damage to
their boat, but as both had large inflatable buoys slung over their sides, neither had come to any harm. The owner of
The Scottish Belle
gave a mock salute and disappeared below deck.

Max poured himself a gin and tonic, picked up a paperback that he had meant to finish the previous summer, and settled down in the bow. He began to thumb through the pages, trying to recall the
exact place he had reached, when the skipper of
The Scottish Belle
reappeared on the deck.

The older man gave the same mock salute, so Max lowered his book and said, ‘Good evening. Sorry about the bump.’

‘No harm done,’ the skipper replied, raising his glass of whisky.

Max rose from his place and, walking across to the side of the boat, thrust out a hand and said, ‘My name’s Max Bennett.’

‘Angus Henderson,’ the older man replied, with a slight Edinburgh burr.

‘You live in these parts, Angus?’ asked Max casually.

‘No,’ replied Angus. ‘My wife and I live on Jersey, but our twin boys are at school here on the south coast, so we sail across at the end of every term and take them back for
their holidays. And you? Do you live in Brighton?’

‘No, London, but I come down whenever I can find the time to do a spot of sailing, which I fear isn’t often enough - as you’ve already discovered,’ he added with a
chuckle, as a woman appeared from below the deck of
The Scottish Belle
.

Angus turned and smiled. ‘Ruth, this is Max Bennett. We literally bumped into each other.’

Max smiled across at a woman who could have passed as Henderson’s daughter, as she was at least twenty years younger than her husband. Although not beautiful, she was striking, and from
her trim, athletic build she looked as if she might work out every day. She gave Max a shy smile.

‘Why don’t you join us for a drink?’ suggested Angus.

‘Thank you,’ said Max, and clambered across onto the larger boat. He leaned forward and shook Ruth’s hand. ‘How nice to meet you, Mrs Henderson.’

‘Ruth, please. Do you live in Brighton?’ she asked.

‘No,’ said Max. ‘I was just telling your husband that I only come down for the odd weekend to do a little sailing. And what do you do on Jersey?’ he asked, turning his
attention back to Angus. ‘You certainly weren’t born there.’

‘No, we moved there from Edinburgh after I retired seven years ago. I used to manage a small broking business. All I do nowadays is keep an eye on one or two of my family properties to
make sure they’re showing a worthwhile return, sail a little and play the occasional round of golf. And you?’ he enquired.

‘Not unlike you, but with a difference.’

‘Oh? What’s that?’ asked Ruth.

‘I also look after property, but it belongs to other people. I’m a junior partner with a West End estate agent.’

‘How are property prices in London at the moment?’ asked Angus after another gulp of whisky.

‘It’s been a bad couple of years for most agents - no one wants to sell, and only foreigners can afford to buy. And anybody whose lease comes up for renewal demands that their
rent should be lowered, while others are simply defaulting.’

Angus laughed. ‘Perhaps you should move to Jersey. At least that way you would avoid …’

We ought to think about getting changed, if we’re not going to be late for the boys’ concert,’ interrupted Ruth.

Henderson checked his watch. ‘Sorry, Max,’ he said. ‘Nice to talk to you, but Ruth’s right. Perhaps we’ll bump into each other again.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ replied Max. He smiled, placed his glass on a nearby table and clambered back onto his own boat as the Hendersons disappeared below deck.

Once again, Max picked up his much-thumbed novel, and although he finally found the right place, he discovered he couldn’t concentrate on the words. Thirty minutes later the Hendersons
reappeared, suitably dressed for a concert. Max gave them a casual wave as they stepped onto the quay and into a waiting taxi.

When Ruth appeared on the deck the following morning, clutching a cup of tea, she was disappointed to find that
Sea Urchin
was no longer moored next to them. She was
about to disappear back below deck when she thought she recognised a familiar boat entering the harbour.

She didn’t move as she watched the sail become larger and larger, hoping that Max would moor in the same spot as he had the previous evening. He waved when he saw her standing on the deck.
She pretended not to notice.

Once he’d fixed the moorings, he called across, ‘So, where’s Angus?’

‘Gone to pick up the boys and take them off to a rugby match. I’m not expecting him back until this evening,’ she added unnecessarily.

Max tied a bowline to the jetty, looked up and said, ‘Then why don’t you join me for lunch, Ruth? I know a little Italian restaurant that the tourists haven’t come across
yet.’

Ruth pretended to be considering his offer, and eventually said, ‘Yes, why not?’

‘Shall we meet up in half an hour?’ Max suggested.

‘Suits me,’ replied Ruth.

Ruth’s half-hour turned out to be nearer fifty minutes, so Max returned to his paperback, but once again made little progress.

When Ruth did eventually reappear, she had changed into a black leather mini-skirt, a white blouse and black stockings, and had put on a little too much make-up, even for Brighton.

Max looked down at her legs. Not bad for thirty-eight, he thought, even if the skirt was a little too tight and certainly too short.

‘You look great,’ he said, trying to sound convincing. ‘Shall we go?’

Ruth joined him on the quay, and they strolled towards the town, chatting inconsequentially until he turned down a side street, coming to a halt in front of a restaurant called Venitici. When he
opened the door to let her in, Ruth couldn’t hide her disappointment at discovering how crowded the room was. ‘We’ll never get a table,’ she said.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ said Max, as the maitre d’ headed towards them.

‘Your usual table, Mr Bennett?’

‘Thank you, Valerio,’ he said, as they were guided to a quiet table in the corner of the room.

Once they were seated, Max asked, ‘What would you like to drink, Ruth? A glass of champagne?’

‘That would be nice,’ she said, as if it were an everyday experience for her. In fact she rarely had a glass of champagne before lunch, as it would never have crossed Angus’s
mind to indulge in such extravagance, except perhaps on her birthday.

Max opened the menu. ‘The food here is always excellent, especially the gnocchi, which Valerio’s wife makes. Simply melts in your mouth.’

‘Sounds great,’ said Ruth, not bothering to open her menu.

‘And a mixed salad on the side, perhaps?’

‘Couldn’t be better.’

Max closed his menu and looked across the table. ‘The boys can’t be yours,’ he said. ‘Not if they’re at boarding school.’

‘Why not?’ asked Ruth coyly.

‘Why … because of Angus’s age. I suppose I just assumed they must be his by a previous marriage.’

‘No,’ said Ruth, laughing. ‘Angus didn’t marry until he was in his forties, and I was very flattered when he asked me to be his wife.’

Max made no comment.

‘And you?’ asked Ruth, as a waiter offered her a choice of four different types of bread.

‘Been married four times,’ Max said.

Ruth looked shocked, until he burst out laughing.

‘In truth, never,’ he said quietly. ‘I suppose I just haven’t bumped into the right girl.’

‘But you’re still young enough to have any woman you like,’ said Ruth.

‘I’m older than you,’ said Max gallantly.

‘It’s different for a man,’ said Ruth wistfully.

The maitre d’ reappeared by their side, a little pad in his hand.