A Beautiful Family Read online

  Aunt Sally paused and looked around. ‘How do you think young white South African boys feel about being used to suppress other South Africans? Many of them don’t want to do it – but most have no choice. Tonight, we are privileged to have a one of those young South Africans with us. He has been forced to leave the country he loves, his home, his family, everything he holds dear, because he won’t take up arms against his fellow citizens. Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to our brave young guest.’

  Alan smiled and walked to the microphone as the polite applause faded. Annette’s heart fluttered. He looked so gorgeous in his new cargo pants and blue shirt. His arms and face were still tanned from Israel, contrasting with his fair hair. The woman in front of her leaned forward. Annette smiled. She had no doubt he’d have the women eating out of his hand before long. The men might prove a bit more of a challenge.

  ‘Dankie, Miss McDonald,’ he said. ‘Good evening, vicar, ladies and gentlemen.’

  She smiled. Alan had broadened his accent slightly. He didn’t sound quite as guttural as PW, but there was no mistaking his origins.

  ‘My name is Alan and I am an Afrikaner.’

  A titter of amusement rippled through the hall, which – on other nights – was used for Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, according to the notice on the board in the foyer.

  ‘I am an Afrikaner,’ Alan continued. ‘I support the Springboks. I love to braai – barbecue.’

  Annette smiled. She’d warned him not to use too many Afrikaans phrases. ‘They won’t understand and we’d hate them to feel stupid.’ Alan had listened, for once.

  ‘I love my country and my language. But I am not a proud Afrikaner.’ He paused and Annette could see that the big man sitting next to her was watching him intently, weighing him up, judging him.

  ‘Before I tell you why I am not a proud Afrikaner, let me tell you a little about myself. I come from a little dorp – a village – you’ve probably never heard of. Driespruitfontein. It’s in the Orange Free State.’

  She’d lost that battle. She’d told him they wouldn’t know where the Orange Free State was, but he said there were so many British graves all over the province from the Boer War, there was a chance someone in the audience had family buried there.

  ‘Driespruitfontein means Three Stream Fountain, but I have no idea where that name came from because we only had one little stream and not a single fountain. Anyway, there’s one main street and one set of traffic lights – we call them robots.’ He waited for the laughter to fade. ‘There’s a police station, a bank that opens three days a week, my parents’ general dealer store, the tote, the church, the bottle store, the farmers’ co-op, the Royal Hotel – isn’t it odd that every dorp in our proud republic has a Royal Hotel? – and a couple of other shops. It’s a farming town, a little like this, but not nearly as pretty.’

  The audience laughed. Annette began to relax. Alan was starting to win them over. She knew he could do it.

  ‘Most of the farmers in the district send their kids to the boarding school there,’ Alan said. ‘I did all my schooling at Driespruitfontein Laerskool and Hoërskool. We had a great rugby team. My best friend, Thys van Zyl, played prop for Free State schools. I think he’ll be a Springbok one day.’ He paused. ‘If Peter Hain will let him.’

  Laughter and applause. Annette began to enjoy herself.

  ‘I had an older brother, David. He was killed on the border during his national service.’

  There was a collective gasp around the hall. This had surprised her too. Alan had hardly ever mentioned his brother to her before. It was only when they were working on his presentation that he had told her how close he and David had been, even if David had been three years older.

  ‘But that isn’t why I refused to do my national service when they called me up.’

  The big man next to her leaned forward. Annette held her breath. Alan was about to come to the crux of his presentation. If the big man bought it, if the audience accepted Alan’s explanation for his refusal to do his duty to his country, the money would come flooding in. If not...

  ‘I’m not afraid of fighting for my country,’ Alan said. ‘I’m not a conscientious objector or a pacifist. My pa was in the South African Army in the Second World War. He fought in Egypt and Italy. It couldn’t have been easy for him. Many Afrikaners supported Hitler and refused to support Jan Smuts. To be honest, Smuts probably had more support in England than at home – even today. I’ve seen his statue next to Churchill’s in the square near your Parliament. I can’t recall seeing a statue of Smuts at home, although there might be one in the airport – but I didn’t stop to look for it when I left. Anyway, my pa went against most of his friends and volunteered to fight the Nazis. I’m proud of my pa.’

  Alan waited until the smattering of applause faded.

  ‘My boet – my brother, David – he went because he thought it was his duty to defend his country against the communist onslaught. That’s what the National Party government told him, and boys like him. He stepped on a landmine and there wasn’t even enough of him left to send home in a box. It nearly killed my ma, to lose her oldest boy. But, when the time came for me to go, she said I must go. That’s what good, patriotic Afrikaner boys are supposed to do. English boys too. A lot of my mates from Wits University, good guys I graduated with, they felt they had to go. I hurt my ma and pa by refusing and I’m sorry about that. But I had no choice.’

  The big man sat back and folded his arms again, shaking his head slightly. Annette hoped he was sympathising with Alan’s dilemma, rather than disagreeing with him.

  ‘I had no choice because my government lied to David.’

  Annette held her breath. The silence in the hall was tangible.

  ‘I believe my government lied to my ma and pa. David didn’t die to save our country from communists. He died to keep our black people in their place, to keep PW Botha and the National Party in power.’

  Alan paused and looked around. The hall was expectant. No one moved.

  ‘Let me tell you what would have happened if I had obeyed my call-up. Just outside Driespruitfontein – the white town of Driespruitfontein where I lived with ma and pa and David – is a township, a lokshin, where the black workers live. They live in shacks with no electricity or running water. There is no school for them. If they get sick, they have to go to the witchdoctor because the white doctor in town won’t treat them and it’s too far for them to get to the black hospital in Bloemfontein. I have good friends who live in that township. Pretty – that was her name, but she was also very pretty…’ There was some laughter in the hall, quickly muffled. ‘Pretty was one of my closest friends growing up. I adored her. We used to play together. She was Johanna’s daughter. Johanna was my nanny.’

  Alan had got a bit emotional and sentimental when he had told her about Johanna and Pretty.

  Now he was telling the audience about how, when he was little, Johanna had carried him on her back. ‘I loved her,’ he said. ‘She played a huge role in making me into the man I am today.’ He drew in a deep, slow breath as if to bring his emotions under control.

  Annette felt tears prick her eyes, even though she’d rehearsed the speech with Alan at least a dozen times. In all their years at Wits, Alan had never told her about Johanna. Or Pretty. ‘You know how it was, back then,’ he’d explained when she’d asked why he had never mentioned them. ‘Black employees – black people in general – were kind of invisible. It’s really only now, when I look back, that I see what an influence they had on me. And how lucky I was to have had them in my life.’

  She admired him for his honesty. It showed just how far he had travelled from Driespruitfontein. She’d told him they could ask the ANC to track down Johanna and Pretty and maybe even get them out of South Africa. He’d refused. It would be too dangerous for them, he’d argued. He’d won that argument. He obviously loved Johanna and Pretty, and she couldn’t risk their lives because she wanted to make him happy.

&nbs
p; ***

  The audience was dead quiet as Alan went on. ‘How could I ride through Driespruitfontein Township on a Ratel armoured vehicle and point an R-5 rifle at the woman who virtually raised me? How could I bash down Pretty’s door, supposedly looking for terrorists – but really only doing it to frighten her and my other black friends in the township? Just to keep them in their place? I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it. My parents didn’t understand and they won’t speak to me anymore, and that hurts. Thys doesn’t speak to me either. But Johanna understood. She gave me her life’s savings so that I could leave the country. So that her kleinboetie, her kleinbasie – that’s what she called me when I was younger – wouldn’t have to go to jail. One day, I hope to be able to pay Johanna back.’

  The big man next to her twirled his moustache. His wife wiped her eyes. Annette swallowed hard. She looked across at the waif – she was also crying. So Alan hadn’t told her the story before either. Good.

  ‘When I left South Africa, I was on my own,’ Alan said. ‘But now there’s a fantastic, brave organisation, the End Conscription Campaign, which is trying to help guys like me. So we won’t have to take the life savings of people like Johanna to avoid going into the army or to jail. So we won’t have to shoot the people we love. Please support them. Thank you.’

  ***

  The church hall rose to its feet. The applause rattled the windows. Annette felt as if her heart would burst. She was so proud.

  Aunt Sally stepped forward. ‘Thank you, Alan.’

  The applause rose again. Aunt Sally held up her hand for silence. The hall sat down.

  ‘If more young men like Alan, good, loyal, Afrikaner boys, refuse to go to the army, the apartheid government would not be able to survive. We need to make it easier for them to refuse. We need to show them that there are people out there who support them, who understand. Ladies and gentleman, if you would like to help young men like Alan and play a small part in destroying the evil of apartheid, please give generously to WOAH. Every penny we collect tonight will be sent to the End Conscription Campaign in South Africa. Thank you’.

  ***

  Later, in the car driving back to London, Aunt Sally was jubilant.

  ‘We’ve never raised so much money in one night before,’ she said. ‘Alan, you were wonderful, quite marvellous.’

  Annette was so proud. She beamed at Alan and smiled inwardly as the waif glared at her and chewed at her lip.

  But then Aunt Sally dropped her off at her flat, where Charles was waiting for her, and Alan and the waif went home together.

  CHAPTER 4

  London, 1988

  Alan was late. It was probably Brenda’s fault. She spent an inordinate amount of time primping herself up – and she still looked like Orphan Annie. However, Alan was clearly still infatuated with her. It didn’t make sense. What did he see in her? The only thing Annette could think of was that little Brenda was a dynamo in bed, because she had the personality – and brain – of a flea.

  Thank heavens she’d had the sense to hang onto Charles after Alan’s letter had come. Her every instinct had been to break it off. But then Alan had arrived with the waif in tow and, three years on, she was still around. It had been fine, at first, when Alan was working fulltime at WOAH and they could spend a lot of time together. Now, however, she didn’t see nearly enough of him, not since he had started working for Ben Shapiro and had moved out of Aunt Sally’s into a bedsit near his job in North London. Ironic, really, that it had been Alan’s performance at a WOAH meeting that had landed him the job at Shapiro and Son.

  ‘There they are,’ said Charles, waving regally at the festive hordes of people moving towards Wembley Stadium. She could see Alan, towering over most of the crowd, his fair hair glinting in the sunlight. And, there was the waif, skipping along at his side like a flipping child. She was twenty-one, now, for heaven’s sake. Would she never grow up?

  Annette stretched up and kissed Alan on the cheek, and the two men shook hands. She ignored Brenda.

  ‘Rock, let’s go in. I want to get as close to the stage as possible.’

  Annette grabbed Alan’s arm and led the way, leaving Charles and the waif to follow. It irritated her to see Charles and Alan together. The contrast between them became so glaringly obvious she wanted to weep. She knew it was unfair of her to compare. Charles was a good man. He loved her. He was comfortable, a bit like an old slipper. But she was too young for slippers. She wanted excitement; she wanted romance; she wanted a man to look at her the way Alan looked at Brenda. She wanted a man who looked like Alan. She wanted Alan.

  ‘Doesn’t Brenda look fantastic,’ said Alan, looking back at the girl, who was skipping along holding onto Charles’ hand. Alan frowned, shrugged off Annette’s hand and put his arm around the waif. Brenda smiled triumphantly at her.

  ‘Mrs Shapiro gave me this jacket for my twenty-first. It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? I was keeping it to wear somewhere special and I think my first real concert is very special,’ Brenda flirted with Alan, who looked down at her adoringly.

  Annette felt bile rise in her throat. Grabbing Charles, she marched into the stadium. She was really looking forward to seeing Whitney Houston and George Michael. Alan loved Dire Straits. He had all their albums.

  Charles, she knew, didn’t particularly want to see anyone. He didn’t even want to be here. He hated crowds and noise. He was already looking miserable, but determined to do his bit to support her and WOAH and, of course, the Anti Apartheid Movement, even if he was a dyed-in-the-wool Tory and everything. Poor Charles. He tried so hard to please her. She really should love him more. She could sense him, standing stiffly behind her. He put his hand tentatively on her shoulder. No wonder Alan called him “Fog”. ‘Wet and dense,’ he’d explained when the waif hadn’t caught the joke. That was a little cruel – and unoriginal – but spot on, even she had to admit.

  ‘I can’t believe so many people have actually come out to support the Mandela Freedom at 70 concert. It’s wonderful, isn’t it, Rock? Gives us hope, doesn’t it?’ Annette said, managing to manoeuvre herself next to him. That left Charles on his own again, but so what? He’d survive and he was too much of a gentleman to make a scene.

  ‘Actually, I’m pretty certain most of these people – well, a lot of them, anyway – don’t give a hoot about Nelson Mandela. They just want to go to the concert,’ Alan said.

  He was such a cynic sometimes, but he was probably right. If it wasn’t for her, Charles would have nothing to do with the Free Mandela Campaign and the waif probably didn’t even know who Mandela was.

  But Alan cared. She knew he did. He still did quite a lot for WOAH, which was fantastic now that they really had to step up their efforts after Dr Ivor Toms was sentenced to jail, the poor man. South African jails were no picnic, as she well knew. Fortunately, Alan had been spared that by getting out of the country in time. However, it wasn’t always easy for him to keep doing his bit for the struggle, because Mr Shapiro, kind as Alan said he was, expected him to put in his eight hours every day – and then some. He still addressed fundraising meetings when he could, and helped out in the office. But then he’d rush off, anxious to get back to the waif. It wasn’t fair. They still got on so well, her and Alan. She knew he enjoyed her company. It was just that he made it so bloody obvious that he preferred being with Brenda. And when that little twit was around, he could barely keep his hands off her. It was quite sickening.

  The crowd roared as Sting came on stage. She let the music wash over her. She wasn’t going to let the waif, or Charles, ruin her day with Alan.

  ***

  Annette was freezing. This was hardly the weather for a protest, but, because the ECC had been banned back in August, it was essential that WOAH show solidarity with the oppressed of South Africa at all times. So it was good that Alan had come along too. She hadn’t expected the waif to tag along as well, but Alan said she also wanted to be part of history in the making. Yeah, right. Brenda probably just didn’t want A
lan to be alone with her.

  They marched down The Mall together, Alan sandwiched between them, Charles bringing up the rear, as usual. They had to try to get as close as possible to Nelson’s column. Brenda sneezed. She clearly wasn’t feeling well. She was always sick in winter, and always moaning about the weather and the fact that it never stopped raining. This was London – what did she think the weather would be like? If she hated it so much – she kept on and on about how much nicer winters were in Jo’burg – why didn’t she just bugger off back to South Africa? It wasn’t as if she would be arrested once she got there, unlike them – Alan and her. However, Alan said she had no family there – and no friends. She didn’t seem to have any friends in London either. Aunt Sally said she liked her. But Aunt Sally liked everyone.

  Brenda sneezed again. Why didn’t she just go home?

  ‘Charles, poor Brenda’s sick. You don’t need to be here. Why don’t you take her home?’ Annette suggested.

  ‘No, I’m fine. Really. Alan said this protest is really important. We’ll go after the main speaker, won’t we, Alan?’ Brenda sniffled.

  Alan put his arm around her and she gave him one of her really pathetic little girl smiles.

  Annette turned away, disgusted. Charles put his arm around her. She wanted to shrug him off, but she couldn’t hurt him like that, and it would show Alan that she didn’t need him. She had to make a decision soon about Charles. She couldn’t keep him dangling forever. He’d asked her again, last night, to marry him. Her plea for more time was starting to wear a little thin. They’d been together for four years, for heaven’s sake. Charles had all but moved into her nice new flat in Chiswick. He wasn’t such a bad catch, as Aunt Sally kept telling her. She agreed. The only problem with him was that he wasn’t Alan.