HENRY
Unlike Jiya, when I was Henry, I lived until the end of my natural days, albeit in the most unnatural of circumstances. I went to sleep one night, with no more than the usual frailty of an elderly man, and simply didn’t wake up. No fear, no knowledge of the inevitable but a peaceful passing, and perhaps, a smile that things were looking up.
As I lay on my age-flattened, rough wool mat that very night, I wondered if, indeed, that this would be the last day my mealie and bread would be rationed. The possibility that I would no longer be made to feel grateful that it was more than my Bantus friends received, or feel ashamed when I was given the portion of jam that they were denied, filled me with a warmth that invaded my entire body.
Rumours had been spreading like a virus over the last few months of my life. Of course, no one ever knew how true they were; one heavily censored letter every six months did not constitute accurate communication with the reality of the outside world. But, like any other virus, it had found a way of infiltrating, no matter how hard the guards tried to stop it. First we’d heard that FW de Klerk had finally relaxed the apartheid laws, then that our great leader had been released from Victor Verster and now, they were saying that the prison was to be closed forever.
Now, I had lived a long enough life to learn the bitter disappointment of having your hopes and dreams raised, only to be slammed back down to where they belong. But somehow, this seemed different. The wind had changed and it seemed that our work was eventually done. Obviously, I didn’t know quite how little time I had left on Earth but I told myself that night, that the rest of my days would be spent in a different world. A world where freedom and equality would finally emerge singing the anthems of those of us who had spent our lives struggling and fighting.
In a funny kind of way, I prayed for the kind of freedom we had possessed when I was growing up in District Six, where merchants lived alongside former slaves and coloureds mixed happily with their Indian neighbours. Of course, this rainbow jigsaw was smashed apart the moment the government decided we were all dangerous criminals and prostitutes, drinking and gambling our lives away. The individual pieces were to be sorted and put into piles, never to risk reconnection again.
I never forgot the humiliation in my mother’s eyes when she was forced to test her hair with a pencil to see which type of African she really was, or the tears in my wife’s eyes, when they bulldozed the house we had only just begun to set up as a newly married couple. Looking back, I suppose these were the catalysts which provoked me into joining the ANC and making my voice heard.
I had been told that there was soon to be a peaceful protest against the dompas, as we called it. But when the word spread, on that fateful day, that the PAC were starting the protest early, in Sharpeville, I cared not to which group I belonged or whether they were peaceful. I thought of my mother and my wife and how much I hated carrying around that stupid dompas, the supposed proof of my right to work in the country where I had lived all my life.
That was the day, in the eyes of the law, that I became a criminal. I dared not tell Elizabeth where I was going, for I knew she would try to persuade me that it was a bad idea. When I arrived, Sharpeville was busier than I’d ever seen it before; people gathered the roads and at first, many were simply singing, dancing and chanting. When we offered ourselves to the police, for not carrying our cards, I could see the surprise and fear in their eyes. Clearly, they had not expected so many to turn up. We outnumbered the police officers by hundreds, if not thousands, and so the balance of power was tipped and it ignited the inferno which was to follow.
Despite the police officers best attempts, they could not regain control of the township and so our stone throwing was greeted with firearms. Every African that fell to the ground that day was ammunition to be stored up for later use. Feeling lucky not to be one of those shot down, I fled back home to Elizabeth. But I had seen familiar faces in the crowds and knew that I would have been spotted too. Our next ANC meeting would be dangerous.
When, that night, Elizabeth told me that I was to become a father, my head told me that my involvement in the riot had been reckless and that my priority should be my expanding family. But my heart told me that now, more than ever, I should fight for the future of my unborn child. How could I bring another life into this world of oppression and inequality? Surely this new human being was made of the same fabric as any other on the planet and deserved exactly the same opportunities?
Now banned, the meetings had to be organised in the utmost secrecy and I went several times, at nightfall, to hear our leaders plan the next demonstrations. It was one such night that I was arrested and charged with killing a young police officer. I knew nothing of the accusation, but in my heart, could not truly deny that this had not been the case. In my rage in Sharpeville, anything was possible. I had become an animal that day and could well have committed crimes beyond my control.
The journey across to Robben Island was bleak. Not only was I about to join the ghosts of lepers and outcasts who had been left there to rot centuries before, but the wind lashed through my flesh, trying to whip out my soul.
Unbeaten, the first few years of my incarceration were the most informative of my life. Of course, there were troubles in the prison; sixty men in a cell made for twenty was overcrowded to say the least. And to make things worse, this was one place where segregation was not enforced; men from very different ideologies did not always see eye to eye and violent fights sometimes broke out. But what we lost in our basic rights as human beings, we gained in knowledge. Having previously held only a hatred of apartheid and a passion for justice, I came to possess a sound understanding of politics and discovered a talent for rhetoric. I used this to produce material which managed to find its way to our new generation of followers on the outside.
Over the years, learning sharpened my mind and digging in the quarry strengthened my body. Oh, the hours we spent digging for limestone. The dust made us cough and the relentless sun beat down on our bodies and glared from the white rock into our eyes. It was only clinging on to the thought of progress for Africa which retained my sanity. In my moments of weakness, when I thought about Elizabeth, and the child I never met, I focused on all of the wives, mothers and children of our country and how my life could be used to make things better for them.
And so all these years later, lying in the small cell I now inhabited on my own, I felt a sense of pride that my pamphlets and leaflets may have played some part in the changing world. And then a strange feeling came over me. The wind may have been changing outside, but for me, inside, it seemed to stop. The very breath that had served me for all these years ceased to flow. In the same way that a new born baby knows instinctively how to be born, I let myself go. Finally, I was free.
VICKY
What a weekend! I can’t believe how significantly my life has changed in just a couple of days. I mean, I knew that it would be a fantastic weekend after the party and us getting engaged but this isn’t quite how I thought it would pan out. My head is spinning and I’m finding it all just a bit overwhelming. I think this ‘pregnancy’ thing is going to be useful; Dan didn’t flicker when I said I didn’t have the energy to do the usual Sunday night shirt ironing routine and needed to come up here for a soak in the bath instead! What bliss!
I shouldn’t joke about it, really. I’ve got myself into a right old situation and Eliza is so right; I’ve got to act fast. Last night, her ‘miscarriage’ idea was the perfect solution. No-one would find out that I’d lied and Dan would feel so dreadful when it ‘happened’ that he wouldn’t be able to go back on agreeing to marry me. Win, win!
But after today, I’m not so sure. Dan was so lovely this morning when brought me breakfast in bed. And when he stayed at home to read the newspapers with me rather than have his Sunday morning pint over the road, I felt like a real princess. I did get the feeling he was actually pleased about this ‘baby’.
Reality hit though when we went round to Dan’s parents for Sunday lunch. I couldn’t believe that even Emma and Tom managed a smile or two when they were all congratulating us. I mean, I know I’m not one for standing in the limelight or anything, but it was lovely to have everyone fussing over me. A tear came to my eye when Dan’s dad gave up his special chair for me and said I’d better sit down in ‘Grandad’s chair’. Bless him, he’s so excited already. With all the chatter about due dates and baby names, I almost forgot the fiction of it all and started to believe it myself.
It was when Dan’s mum brought out his baby photo’s that it started to feel a bit awkward. They all sat cooing and reminiscing about what little hair Dan had for such a long time and the way he gave a really cheesy thumbs up on every photo taken during his childhood. Dan got all defensive and deflected the laughter on to his mum when he told them how awful the jumpers were that she’d knitted for him every year. That was all well and good but when his mum said, ‘You’ve got all this to come, Vicky, with our new little Dan’ and his Dad added, ‘Or Daniella’ I began to feel such shame.
Already, in their eyes, they have added a branch to their family tree. The seed has been sewn and their name, genetic make up and lack of hair will be passed on to another generation. And here I am about to rip it all away from them. I mean I know miscarriages can happen but I can tell they’d be devastated already if they lost the grandchild they’ve clearly been dreaming of for years.
When they finally went up into the loft to retrieve that ghastly reindeer jumper from Dan’s second Christmas, and brought down the family Christening gown for ‘a good wash’, in case we might want to use it, I knew I had to leave. I suppose it was about three o’clock anyway and I knew Dan wouldn’t mind getting back for that pint he’d missed this morning.
One way or another, I’m going to have to ring and tell Mum this week because when they were clearing the lunch dishes, I’m sure I overheard Dan’s dad say that at least this would be something to write about in the card this year. I’m not sure why, but they insist on writing letters in the Easter cards they send to Mum. It’s quite sweet really, I suppose but I can’t let that be the first she hears about it.
My conversation with Mum will be the hardest so far. I can’t be truthful with her, like I was with Eliza. She’d be absolutely disgusted at my deceit. Plus, I can’t burden her with worry, over there on her own. I know she professes that moving over to Spain was the best thing she’s done since Dad died but I can tell it’s not everything that she imagined. She’s far too proud to admit it but I know. I guess, that in the same way, she’ll sense that I’m not entirely telling the truth about the baby. I can’t explain it but there’s just this unspoken truth with Mum. It’s like, I can tell within nano-seconds of a conversation whether she’s tired, unwell, worried or unhappy. I’m not stupid enough to think she doesn’t read me in the same way too.
At least Maggie will save me the job of telling everyone in Freddock. She was so funny in the shop this afternoon. As soon as I saw her I knew she was bursting to say something so I let her slowly simmer as she chatted about her Amateur Dramatics play this Spring and tried to persuade me that there was a perfect part left for me: a beautiful, popular, successful career girl or something.
“But I hear you might be too, shall we say, rotund, by May!” she boiled over, “Oh, I’m sorry, Dan swore me to secrecy last night in the pub but I just can’t help myself. I’m so happy for you both. It won’t be long before you’ll be shouting it from the rooftops yourselves anyway,” she justified. I guess I’ll be the hot topic of village gossip this week then. Well, at least I’ll be talked about. What is it they say? It’s better to be talked about than not talked about at all.
I can just imagine the next Summer Fair Committee meeting. No more great tea bag debate. It’ll be all about our baby. Barbara and Frances will be enlisting me in their toddler groups, buggy hikes and all sorts. Old Norman will be testing the ground for whether we’ll be having a Christening and subtly hinting that it might be better to start coming to church on a Sunday sooner rather than later.
I’d never really thought about it but people are much more excited by the prospect of a baby than by a wedding. Neither Maggie nor Dan’s parents said much about the wedding at all. I imagined that everyone would want to know all about our grand plans but it seems that’s all paled into insignificance now.
I’ve only got myself to blame. What a tangled web I’ve woven. I’ve got my fiancé, of course, and I can’t wait to refer to Dan as such tomorrow at work. There’s no way that can change now. He’s doing the right thing and marrying me and I actually believe he’s thrilled about having a child together. I wouldn’t ruin that by telling the truth. And what harm is my little white lie doing?
Certainly lying again, by saying I lost a baby, would hurt people though. Dan and our families would be really upset and I’d have to go through more difficult pretence. I don’t think I could bare it.
That just leaves the option of getting pregnant for real. Once the awkwardness of my fake-pregnancy is over, I could really enjoy the attention of it all, you know. I’ve done the hard part now, I guess. No-one thought that me becoming a parent was a terrible idea, or at least they didn’t say so! They must think I’m up to it. And I think I am too!
It wouldn’t be so bad. How hard can it be? Eliza’s right; I do like her kids and I’d adore my own flesh and blood. And if she’s manage alone for all these years, Dan and I can do it together, with the support of our family and friends. Hey, it might even be a good enough reason for Mum to come back from Spain. We’re alright financially and plenty of women pick their careers up again after they’ve been off on maternity leave. Freddock can be a bit dull at times, but it’s the perfect place to have a child. I never had all this green, open space when I was growing up but I can see how good and safe it is for all the children in the village. And Maggie’s always telling me about families who move here to get into the school. Half the world’s involved in this child rearing business; there must be something in it!
Our child would be safe, loved and wanted from the start. Did I say ‘would’? I mean ‘will’. I don’t know why I’ve never reached this conclusion before. Rather than a problem to be solved, this as an opportunity to begin the next chapter of our lives together. I’m ready. I just need one vital ingredient to pull this plan together; I’ve got some baby-making to organise!