A Beautiful Family Read online

  Aunt Sally examined the photo closely. ‘Mmmm. That’s a very charming young man. Just friends, you say? Why? Is he queer? He doesn’t look like a fairy – he looks like Paul Newman. What’s he do? Is he a model?’

  ‘Aunt Sal, you’re brilliant. You know how hard it’s been to find a South African guy to be the face of our next WOAH fund raiser – the one for the End Conscription Campaign? Most of the draft dodgers who come through here are bloody drips. But Alan – he’s perfect. He’s exactly what the South African Defence Force would use in one of their recruitment campaigns, except for the fact that he’s as anti-Nat as I am. Well, almost.’

  Aunt Sally frowned. ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Absolutely. I got to know him really well at varsity. He was a bit naive politically at first – but what would you expect from a boertjie – well, that’s what he called himself – who was raised in some godforsaken, ultra-conservative Free State dorpie? I mean, he even called Blacks by the K word when we first met.’

  Aunt Sally frowned and Annette quickly explained, ‘He didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that, where he came from, everyone used that word. To him, it was just a word. But, when I explained that it wasn’t right, he stopped.’ Aunt Sally was still frowning so Annette hurried on: ‘He covered for me quite a few times when the security police were after me. I’d trust him with my life.’

  ‘Okay, if you’re sure; I suppose WOAH could do worse.’

  Annette hugged her aunt. She didn’t know what she’d have done without dear Aunt Sally when she had first arrived in London, frightened and penniless – there hadn’t been time for her father to get money to her before the bloody pigs had put her on a plane for England. She hadn’t even been able to say goodbye to them. Or to him.

  ‘You won’t be sorry,’ she assured her aunt. ‘He’s smart, articulate and – let’s be honest – quite gorgeous. The ladies who ride and lunch are going to adore him.’

  ‘You absolutely sure he’s not queer or anything? The lords who hunt wouldn’t give him snow in winter if he’s a fairy. He wouldn’t mind doing this for us?’

  ‘Oh, Alan’s as straight as they come – believe me. And yes, he’ll do it if we ask him nicely. He’s a great guy and I love him – in a purely platonic way, you understand. He’s one of the brightest guys I’ve ever met, terribly ambitious and really great fun. You’ll like him.’

  CHAPTER 2

  ‘There he is.’ Annette left her aunt’s side and ran towards him as he emerged through the doors into the arrivals hall at Dover port. It was hard to believe it had been more than three years since she’d seen him. He had barely changed. His reddish blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail; he had grown a beard, but he was still her Rock. She reached up and flung her arms around his neck; she couldn’t help herself. He swung her around and smiled down at her, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, his white teeth gleaming. Her legs felt like jelly.

  ‘You made it; you made it.’

  He beamed. ‘Hi there, you wonderful, wonderful girl. You fixed it perfectly. I just gave them my name, waved my South African passport at them and they knew exactly who I was. Apparently I now have temporary political refugee status.’

  ‘Oh Rock, it’s so great to see you.’ She hugged him and then stepped back to introduce him to Aunt Sally, who had followed her across the hall.

  ‘Rock, this is my aunt, Sally McDonald, our miracle worker. I told you about her, remember? She’s the one who arranged everything. Aunt Sally, this is Alan Silverman.’

  He shook Aunt Sally’s hand and then looked around.

  ‘Hey, Brenda,’ he called. ‘They let me through, no problems, thanks to these wonderful ladies. Come here and meet Annette.’

  A little girl with dark curly hair limped over, looking lost and frightened. Who on earth was this? Probably someone Alan had met on the ferry and taken under his wing. He was always taking care of strays, especially female strays.

  ‘Brenda.’ He held out his hand to the child. ‘This is Annette – an old friend from South Africa. And Sally, is it?’ He smiled at Aunt Sally, who beamed back at him.

  ‘Annette, Sally, this is Brenda.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘So, ladies, what now?’ he asked.

  Aunt Sally took charge. ‘My car is outside. We’ll be heading back to London. You’ll stay with me until we can find you something more permanent. I tried to get you a place at an ANC safe house in East Finchley. Lots of South African refugees like you stay there all the time. But they’re overflowing. So I’ve got a spare room that I sometimes rent out, but you can use it until you get settled. What about you, dear?’ she asked the waif gently. ‘Where are you headed? Are your parents coming to meet you?’

  The waif chewed her lip. She looked as if she was about to cry.

  Alan put his arm around the girl’s shoulders. ‘Brenda’s with me,’ he said.

  The floor tilted. The room spun. Annette’s heart shifted into her stomach. What did that mean? Travelling with him? She couldn’t be with him, with him. Not like that.

  ‘That isn’t going to be a problem, is it, Sally? It’s really kind of you to offer to put me – us – up, but if you can’t, we’ll understand,’ Alan said.

  What about me? Annette’s silent scream echoed in her head. Why don’t you ask me if it’s a problem for me? It is a problem. I was expecting, hoping... after your letter, I thought you’d missed me, wanted to be with me. However, she didn’t say any of it. She’d had plenty of experience hiding her hurt back at Wits when he had screwed around and then introduced her to his many and varied girlfriends. Well, it had probably been her own stupid fault for being so bloody influenced by those radical women’s libbers who said sex objectified women and allowed men to dominate them.

  Now he’d arrived with another little tart in tow. So much for the happy fantasies that had dominated her every thought since his letter had arrived. About how he’d tell her he’d always loved her; how he’d missed her; how he’d make slow, passionate love to her. She’d already decided not to even pretend to want to fight him off. She’d rehearsed her “dear John” speech for poor Charles over and over again. Now it looked as if she’d just have to be satisfied with being his friend. She’d done it before; she’d do it again. However, once she reminded him of how close they used to be, how much he enjoyed her company, perhaps he’d come to realise that they were meant to be together. Properly together.

  ‘So you’re also a South African,’ Aunt Sally was saying to the waif, who was hanging onto his hand.

  Christ, how old was she? Even Alan couldn’t be so stupid, surely, to run away with a child. That couldn’t be why he’d had to leave wherever he had been for the past few years, could it?

  ‘Of course you can stay with me. The more the merrier, I always say. It will be lovely to have you. Now let’s go find the car.’ Aunt Sally chattered on cheerfully as she led them to her tiny caramel car. ‘Just as well you’re such a little thing, or it would be a very tight squeeze. We were only expecting Alan, but aren’t you a nice surprise.’

  Some bloody surprise, indeed. Annette didn’t say a thing. She couldn’t. She’d cry if she opened her mouth.

  ‘Alan, you’d best sit in front, with me,’ Aunt Sally went on. ‘Annette, you and Brenda should be comfortable enough in the back. Is that all the luggage you have? Right, then. Let’s put it in the boot. And off we go.’

  The little car lurched out of the parking lot. Annette stared intently out of the window at the passing countryside. She didn’t see a thing. She didn’t look at the waif. She just couldn’t.

  In the front, Alan turned on his charm full bloody blast and Aunt Sally was obviously lapping it up. She was laughing and more animated than Annette had ever seen her.

  ‘As you know – or maybe you don’t,’ Aunt Sally was saying to Alan, ‘Annette and I work for WOAH – that’s Women Opposed to Apartheid. We try to raise money to assist with the struggle in any way we can. The Anti Apartheid Movem
ent is big in the cities and they help us with offices and things like that. We focus more on the country areas and also areas where the people tend to be a little more conservative. And rich. There’s lots and lots of money among the landed gentry, I can tell you. They’re going to love you.’

  ‘They are?’

  ‘Oh, of course, Annette hasn’t had a chance to ask you yet. She had this brilliant idea, Annette did. She’s such a clever girl, our Annette.’

  He nodded. ‘Mmm, I know.’

  Not clever enough, Annette thought. In fact, bloody stupid to love a guy who obviously still chases anything in a skirt. Anything.

  ‘Well, I may as well ask you now,’ Aunt Sally was still burbling. It was funny how older women also fancied him. Even that speech and drama professor – the one everyone thought was butch – had fallen for him. It had been the joke of the arts department, especially the whole elocution excuse bit.

  ‘We’re going to be running a campaign to raise money for the End Conscription Campaign.’

  ‘What’s that? I’m very out of touch with what’s been happening back home, I’m afraid. South Africa’s not exactly big news in Israel.’

  ‘Of course, you must have left South Africa before the ECC was formed. It’s an organisation in South Africa that campaigns against national service conscription and, where possible, tries to help boys like you who are not prepared to serve in the apartheid army.’

  ‘Sounds like my kind of organisation. Bloody dangerous, though.’

  ‘It is, indeed it is. But if they can persuade more and more boys like you not to go to the army, if enough of them refuse, the South African Government would be in real trouble. They’re having to use the conscripts in the townships now, you know, and a lot of national servicemen don’t like that. The ones who come through our offices say that fighting communists on the border is one thing, but fighting your own citizens in townships right where you live, that’s something different. It’s civil war in South Africa now. It’s terrible. It has to stop. Botha and his Nazis have to go.’

  ‘So where do I figure in all this?’

  Annette smiled to herself. He was going to do it. He liked to be needed, and he loved being the centre of attention. If he came to work for WOAH, they’d be spending a lot of time together. Perfect.

  ‘Well, we need someone to be the face of our campaign,’ Aunt Sally explained. ‘The problem is that most of the “draft dodgers” we see here are not exactly going to encourage the mink and manure set to sign a cheque, now are they? The husbands are highly suspicious of anyone who looks – dare one say it, a bit… um… effeminate?’

  Alan laughed. ‘I can imagine. And so you want me to… what? Charm them out of their daddy’s and mummy’s millions, huh?’

  Aunt Sally laughed softly. ‘That’s right. Would you do it? Unfortunately, we couldn’t pay you, but it’s for the cause, isn’t it?’

  ‘Why not? Sounds easy enough.’

  Yes. Yes. Yeesss. He was going to do it!

  ‘I was wondering, though, Alan. It would sound so much more convincing if you spoke a bit more like an Afrikaner. So they realise that there are lots of Afrikaners who are opposed to apartheid and that there’s a good chance that, with their help, things really could change for the better. Do you think you could do that?’

  He threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘Sally, if you only knew what I had to do to lose my Driespruitfontein accent. You’ve just paid me the biggest compliment of my life. Ja-well-no-fine.’ He dropped back into the thick, guttural tones he had been so mocked about at Wits when she had first met him. ‘Ah kin do it. Howzat?’

  CHAPTER 3

  For the first time since she’d started working for WOAH, Annette got to the office before Aunt Sally. It was Alan’s first day and she wanted to impress him. Aunt Sally had agreed to let her show him around. She caught her breath as he filled the doorway leading to the little kitchen where she was preparing tea. He was magnificent, his tan making his eyes even bluer and his teeth even whiter. He’d filled out since varsity – must have been all that manual labour in Israel. It made sense that he’d gone there first after fleeing South Africa, she supposed, being Jewish and all. Funny how she’d never really thought of him as being Jewish. He certainly wasn’t like all the bagels who flocked to Wits to study B.Com IDB – In Daddy’s Business – or law. He didn’t look Jewish and he certainly didn’t sound Jewish. Aunt Sally had been shocked when she had realised. Well, not really shocked – more surprised than anything.

  ‘We’ll just have to fudge his ethnic origins with the landed gentry if we want them to donate to our cause,’ Aunt Sally said. ‘They may not like the boers much, but I suspect – no, I know – they like Jews even less.’

  ‘So, what’s the programme for today?’ Alan asked as he took the cup of tea she offered from her. His fingers brushed hers. Deliberately? She couldn’t tell. At least he’d left the waif back at Aunt Sally’s flat, so she’d have him to herself.

  ‘First, you have to have a haircut, Aunt Sally said. And the beard has to go. You have to look like a clean cut Afrikaans boy, not a hippy refugee from Woodstock. So you’ll need some new clothes too. She said I could take you shopping. Nothing fancy, mind. We’re on a tight budget here.’

  ***

  When they got back to the office, Aunt Sally was delighted with Alan’s transformation. He really did look amazing. His hair was short – shorter even than it had been the first time Annette had laid eyes on him in the Wits cafeteria. She’d never forget that day. Ever.

  ‘Is anyone sitting here?’ he’d asked, indicating the empty chair opposite her.

  She had shaken her head and he had sat down and smiled at her, and her heart had lurched. He was the most gorgeous guy she had ever laid eyes on.

  ‘I’m Alan,’ he said.

  They spoke. They always had so much to talk about. He was so smart, so witty. They laughed at the same jokes. They both loved Blondie and The Rolling Stones; he went with her to see Saturday Night Fever – twice, and she suffered through Star Wars and The Exorcist with him. And they argued. About everything. He loved to play devil’s advocate, to pretend he was a verkrampte right-wing racist. He loved to call black people kaffirs just to get her back up. She knew he didn’t mean it. He laughed at her when she got angry with him. He made her think about her beliefs. He challenged her assertions, pounced on any contradictions in her statements, helped her to sharpen her mind. After years of his probing questions, interrogation by those security police oafs, even Rooi Rus, had been – well, not a breeze exactly, but manageable.

  He posed patiently for the photographs for the WOAH campaign posters and brochures. The photographer had been in a state of rapture from the time he laid eyes on Alan. She agreed. He really should be a model – except he was far too bright. Now, they were arguing again. About his fund raising presentation. He was as bloody stubborn as ever. He wanted to tear into Afrikaners and the National Party government, let the audience know just what bigoted idiots they all were. He’d lived with them all his life, he said, so he should know.

  ‘No, we can’t do that,’ she explained. ‘If they think Botha and his bullies are just stupid thugs, they’ll think we are even bigger idiots for taking so long to overthrow them. And we have to make them sympathise with white Afrikaners – like you. They need to see that whites in South Africa also want change.’

  Finally, they crafted a draft both of them could live with.

  ***

  Friday was Alan’s first presentation. They drove to the little village outside London in Aunt Sally’s car, Alan folded into the front passenger seat again; she and the waif chilly in the back. The hall, next to a pretty stone church with roses lining the path, was already set up for the WOAH meeting. There were rows of chairs, and a table at the front for Aunt Sally and Alan. She went to the back to help set up for tea. The waif, too precious to get her hands dirty – she’d probably never done a hard day’s work in her life – sat down at the end of one
row near the front.

  Annette could see Alan was nervous, but he winked at her as she took up a seat in the front row on the other side of the hall.

  ‘This is a really important meeting,’ Aunt Sally had said in the car. ‘Our audience tonight has oodles of money and a very keen interest in South Africa. Some of their forebears probably fought in the South African War and might even have died there. So, while they think the world of Maggie Thatcher, they’re not as supportive as she is of Mr Botha and his henchmen.’

  Alan had looked over his shoulder and smiled at the waif. ‘That’s good to know, isn’t it, sweetheart?’ he’d said.

  Annette’s stomach had knotted. She hated it when he looked at Brenda like that. ‘They find PW uncouth and they don’t like the way he treats the “natives”,’ she’d blurted out. ‘It makes them feel guilty about colonialism when they see white cops shooting black children.’

  Alan had laughed. ‘Don’t worry, Annette. I’ll show them that not all boers are thugs.’

  ***

  The hall was filling up. That was a good sign. Aunt Sally would be pleased. As usual, the women were mostly well preserved, middle aged and neatly groomed. They wore slacks and jackets and sensible shoes. Their husbands tended to have the ruddy complexions one associates with people who spend a lot of time outdoors – golfing or riding or some other pursuit of the leisured class.

  Annette crossed her fingers. She was sure Alan would be wonderful, but still…

  Aunt Sally blew into the microphone. She looked like a little grey dove on the stage, in her pale grey twinset and her grey tailored slacks. Then she drew herself up to her full five feet one and commanded the hall like the headmistress she used to be before she’d decided to do something “useful” with her life.

  ‘Testing, testing. Please will everyone be seated. Thank you.’ The hall quietened down. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for accepting our invitation to this meeting of Women Opposed to Apartheid. Vicar, thank you for your generous hospitality. As you know, things in South Africa are deteriorating daily. Troops are being sent into the townships to ruthlessly squash the legitimate protests of the native black population – people who are not even treated like second class citizens. They are not regarded as citizens at all. Or even as human beings.’