Thesis...

Flame Lilies in October

I’m dying. Air is squashed out - losing control. Heartbeat is too quick. The face is cold and arms have goose pimples.

The hands are full of needles, and sweat drips down, and where it touches the skin it burns.

Lie down and start to count. It’s a daily ritual now. You know the drill.

Chant the mantra, you have much need of forgiveness. Ask for it. Judgment is coming, be prepared. Start to cry, and despise your own weakness. It’s a mind game sweetheart.

A powerfully real, twisted reality. A rational seed of doubt squashed under fear’s heel. The demon still takes over. Am I possessed? Maybe, but it’s a hard enemy to fight.

The shaking starts. Exhaustion. The mind has its own mind, it’s not my mind.

Step away from yourself, out of your own body, and watch yourself writhing in pain. Don’t feel pity, it doesn’t deserve it. Self or something other? Return to the body, it’s where you belong. The two of you are one.

I close my eyes, and picture her face.

He tries to comfort me in these moments, but I can see that he doesn’t understand.

No one does.

They all think I’m crazy. I probably am.

Mark is kind. He thinks he knows me well, perhaps he does. But my darkness is beyond his reach- he cannot follow me here. He’s impatient with me. He wants to know why the drugs aren’t working. He thinks I’m weak for not fighting this without their help.

I lie still. He comes to me. The life is drawn out of me. I wait to die. He picks my head up, onto his lap, and his fingers are painfully cold as he wipes a tear from my cheek. He sighs, he’s tired of this now.

“Come on Anna, please love, you have to come out of this, you know its not real. You’re fine, I promise. I wouldn’t lie to you, please, just wake up. Please Anna, no more of this. It’s not real, I promise.”

He’s trying so hard to reach me. He rocks my head in his lap, whispering to me. I hear him. Do I believe him? I cannot respond, although I want to. I want to believe. The numbers I’m counting drown out his voice.

Keep shaking, heart keeps racing, keep dancing girl. Pale moon of a face.

Then his voice changes.

“Anna, enough of this, come on, you are fine. You are fine Anna, you hear me? Enough of this. Please Anna, enough. We went and saw Doctor Hanley just last week, and he said that there is nothing wrong with you. Get a grip Anna. You have to believe him. You have to believe me. You are fine, there is nothing wrong with you, understand?”

Our relationship is weakening. The darkness in me is chasing you away. Do you still see me, the person you fell in love with, in this mad woman?

According to Doctor Hanley, I have OCD, an anxiety condition that entails obsessive, irrational preoccupation with illness and death. It started after I lost you.

Dr Hanley is an old man with ginger whiskers, and a balding head. Every Tuesday I go to his office in town, for another familiar routine. The first time I saw him I remember being rather taken aback by his office. It is a darkly lit dungeon, with green dingy walls that could do with a new coat of paint. There is a bear- skin rug on the floor, whose head frightens me with its hollow eyes. The walls are coated in bookshelves, full of old dusty treasures that give me asthma. He collects skulls, which are all displayed in between the books. Each one has a carefully made placard with its name, approximate dating, place of origin and how he acquired it. His favourite one is the skull of the Pink Fairy Armadillo (Chlamyphorus truncatus), which comes from central Argentina. He got it from a gypsy woman in Sicily who claimed it had magical healing powers, and Edmund once confided to me that he strokes its head every morning for luck. My first impression of Dr Edmund Rochester Hanley is that he is old. My second is that he is possibly as mad as I am. I entered his office for the first time, to find him lying on the patient’s couch, studying a preserved animal in a jar. Upon my entering he quickly stood up, placed the jar on the table, dusted off his tweed jacket and reached for his round, old- fashioned spectacles.

“Ah, Miss Winter, isn’t it? Welcome my dear, welcome. Please take a seat on this chair, and make yourself at home.” He reached for my hand and I noticed his fingers were knotted, but I didn’t judge him to be much older that 65. He noticed me looking rather pointedly at his jar, and he cleared his throat.

“Ah, yes Miss Winter, or may I call you Anna? Yes? Excellent, thank you. This is Bertie my newly acquired Heterocephalus Glaber, or naked molerat. Fine fellow isn’t he? I got him from a delightful old collector on my travels in Ethiopia. Fascinating man really, he knew everything is to know about mole rats, it was jolly interesting chatting to him. For instance, did you know the mole rats live in colonies presided over by a queen? Ah yes, they are extremely social creatures, and the queen has absolute power, it’s a rather hierarchical system really. Georgie assures me this is the queen but I have my doubts, I think she looks rather small, what do you think?”

I mumbled a reply. I didn’t want to be there, but Mark had insisted that I go, and even I had to admit I needed help.

“Well, Anna, what can I do for you my dear? Why don’t you tell me all about it? But first, would you like some tea?”

I was still looking around at everything in his office, fascinated by the array of treasures in front of me, but his words caught my attention. “I would love some tea, thank you Doctor Hanley. You have a really interesting collection of objects here.” The little man seemed to visibly inflate in his old tweed suit, and I swear I could see those ginger whiskers twitching.

“Well thank you my dear, how very kind! You must allow me to show you some of the more interesting pieces at the end of our session, particularly my pink fairy armadillo skull. What a find that was! For now though, let me make that tea, and please, dear, do go on with how I can be of service to you. Oh and please call me Edmund.”

I started to explain the anxiety attacks, feeling foolish and pathetic. My doctor sat nodding in the chair opposite me, occasionally exclaiming, “yes, yes” or “quite so” softly under his breath, while the tea pot whistled in the corner. When I had finished explaining my symptoms he got up, and bustled over to the teapot, and poured our tea into clay mugs that looked as ancient as everything else in that room.

“Milk and Sugar Anna dear? Just milk? Alright, there you go, I hope its to your liking. Now tell me, what do you think is behind these attacks? Has something happened recently that has disturbed you? Can you think of anything my dear? You see, I very much believe that you are experiencing anxiety attacks, caused by Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Now don’t look so alarmed dear, its quite treatable I assure you. Many people have it, but in order to really address it we must venture to its roots, you understand? For example, if I want to truly understand the life cycle of Phycodurus eques or the leafy sea dragon, I must know where it comes from, in order to understand its adaptations. It is the same with your condition, my dear, it must have been sparked by something, and we must find out what that is.”

I thought of you. I saw your face and thought of your last words to me. I thought of what dying must have been like for you. The familiar signs set in. Then a warm hand holds my limp one, and comforting words echo in the distance.

“There, there, Anna my dear, we will fix this. Now, I want you to describe exactly what you are feeling and tell me what you were thinking of before you felt this way. Take your time my dear, nice deep breaths, we’ll soon have you right as rain. That’s right, deep breathes, think of something beautiful, something that makes you happy.

I can only think of you. I think of that time when I sat on your lap and we watched the tree’s branches sway and you laughed, convinced they were dancing just for you. I feel myself coming back, and my body starts to shake.

“Every time this happens, I picture my grandmother’s face. I was not there when she died, but I imagine her in that moment, I hear her screams and her pain, and I feel helpless and terrified for her. My body takes over, as if it wants to know her pain so it can conquer it for her, and I feel the life being drawn from me.”

Dr Hanley’s face is thoughtful and still, and he pats my hand gently, and his gnarled fingers remind me of yours.

“Alright Anna, you have done very well. It is not uncommon to experience this after the loss of someone who you loved so deeply. My dear, she is gone, and you have to let go, as impossible as that seems. You couldn’t save her. No one could, so catch hold of the memories that give you joy and release the ones that are causing you so much pain. When the attacks happen I want you to focus on your breathing, imagine you are trying to inflate a balloon, and take nice deep breaths for me- practice now. Yes, that’s perfect. Try to imagine something beautiful or something that gives you joy. Now come here, if you have a minute to spare a foolish old man, and let me tell you all about my fairy armadillo, a most extraordinary creature to be sure.”

So having rubbed the head of that armadillo for luck I wandered home. I told Mark about the meeting and he could hardly believe it. He kept asking if I thought I would be cured. I had no answer for him. I did feel a sense of relief though. I really want to believe that a ginger- whiskered little man in a tweed suit could be my redemption.

Later, I make green tea, and sit by the window for a while, watching a pair of nesting robins outside. When I was little you would tell me a story about Mr and Mrs Weaverbird, who lived in your garden. Mr Weaver would spend hours building the softest, cosiest nest for Mrs Weaver, a very fussy bird, who promptly picked the whole thing to pieces and ordered her poor husband to start again. Mark has it easy compared to Mr Weaver I think. I reach for your diary and feel the leather cover, quite worn now, and open to the page I left off.

December 12

It’s almost Christmas and I still haven’t made up my mind. Do I stay or do I go? I have no idea. I love him, but it will be hard to leave my home and my family, especially Brian. I think of last night and I feel cold. Father sits in his leather armchair by the fire, feet up, questioning Alfie on his geography. He is determined to make something more than a farmer of his youngest son, and this questioning has become a nightly routine he takes all too seriously. My father’s face is full of lines, he is getting old, and his injury, which never properly healed, pains him more and more. He has never told me how he got it, but mother thinks some shrapnel from a bullet got lodged in his back- he has never told her either. We are all worried about the day when his pain will become too much to bare and he will no longer be able to run the farm. Brian was supposed to take over, but now…

Alfie keeps shooting me bored looks when Father isn’t looking, but he gets most of the answers right. My younger brother is smart, but lazy, the only time he puts his mind to use is when he is plotting mischief with me. Jeanie sits at the pianoforte, playing All things bright and beautiful, humming the words softly to herself, in her own world as usual. I wish we were closer but we don’t have much in common, she is going to be ‘a fine lady’ one day and have a ‘house is Salisbury and twenty servants at least’ while all I want really is to finish my education, and be with John. I can hear Mama singing while she helps Judith with supper. Poor Judith is a fine cook, but Mama loves cooking, and being in control so she helps Judith most nights, except when we have company. Brian is on the settee in the next room, reading the Count of Monte Cristo. He is paler than usual today, and I keep seeing Mama peek round the corner at him, as if to ensure he is still there. I go and sit by him, and he smiles his captivating grin as if to assure me everything is alright. We all know how much Brian is suffering but he still works hard to try to hide it from us.

“Well Tess, what can you tell me? What adventures have you been on today?”

“I walked down to the vlei earlier, with the dogs. All the flame lilies were in flower, I picked Mama some. Cassie is getting very good at catching rabbits, I got so cross with her today because she caught a young one and killed it. It was such a little thing, Brian, I felt so sad for it. I gave Cass a smack and she ran off into the deep velt so I followed her because I didn’t want her to get lost.”

“Ah, that’s a pity, but its just her natural instincts Tessie, she can’t help herself. I know it’s awful though, when you see the poor little thing she’s killed. Where did you find her after she ran off?”

I had been dying to tell my story all day, and Brian was just the person I wanted to tell it to the most. He understands better than the others. “She was in the thicket past the lake, where the giant termite nest is, the one we made into our fort, remember? Where we went sliding in the mud? That one. She was barking at something so I was quite worried when I got closer, because I thought she had found a snake. It wasn’t a snake though Brian, she was barking at a person!”

“One of our people Tess? One of the workers? They have been going to the vlei recently to hunt small animals and Kudu. You must be careful! You will be shot at one day, the vlei isn’t safe any more. We have to do something about the poaching.”

“No, no Brian, it wasn’t one of our people, it was a woman, but I have never met her before. She was so pretty with the darkest skin I have ever seen and light blue eyes. She was wearing a dress as fine as anything Mama owns, it was a rich blue satin, but the bottom was torn and muddy, and the colour was washed out and frayed. I watched her for a while, and she looked at me, and I don’t think either of us knew quite what to do! She seemed to want to ask me something.”

“She shouldn’t have been there Tess, she was trespassing. Who was she? What happened next?”

“Well, I stopped Cassie barking a her, and then she came over to me, and introduced herself. She said her name was Khai, and that she was just passing through, and would I be gracious enough to let her stay one more day? I didn’t know what to say then, for I don’t think Papa would have been pleased at all, but I nodded, because I felt too bad to tell her to go. She thanked me and invited me in for tea! Can you imagine, Brian? I saw then that she had set up a shelter behind a termite mound. It was a whole lot of sticks bound together, with palm fronds laid over the top. Inside there was material laid out on the floor, with a pattern of the stars and the moon. Fabric hung on the walls as well, in all sorts of different patterns and shades- my favourite one looked like the ocean, with blue, green and silver rolling waves. There was a wedding photograph propped up in the corner, of Khai with a white man!”

“A white man? That’s strange Tess, but it has happened before. Did the man look familiar? We know most people from around here.”

“No, I had never seen him before. They looked so happy in the picture, her head was thrown back, and she was laughing, and he was gazing at her, laughing as well. I wanted to ask her about it, but I thought she might not like it. She went outside to boil some water for the tea, and I had a look around. I know it was wrong, but I can never help myself. There was a carved ivory box, with elephants on it, a small mirror, with a fine gilt frame, a cardboard box full of lace, an ivory comb and the complete works of Shakespeare, in leather bound books with gold edging. There was a suitcase in the corner, and I had a peep inside, and it was full of the most beautiful dresses I have ever seen! Oh Brian, she must have such a story to tell! It was all so strange.”

“It’s bizarre! Did you ask her anything about herself? What her story is?” Brian took my hand and squeezed it.

“Well, she came back and poured our tea into two bone china teacups, I hadn’t noticed, with hand painted flowers all around the brim. Her hands were beautiful, she had such long fingers, and all her gestures were elegant. Her voice was low as she spoke to me, her accent as English as ours. “Do you take sugar, Tess? I do apologise that I have no milk available, I hope it is alright?” I answered that it was fine, of course, and she went on, “you must be wondering whom I am and what I am doing on your land. Please forgive me, I would not trespass normally for anything, but at the moment I have no choice. I cannot say much, but I will tell you that my husband is in trouble and has been taken away. He forced me to flee, before the police arrived, as he was worried they would punish me as well. I collected some of my favourite things, and I ran. I didn’t know where I was going, I just had to leave.”

I was worried at this point that we were letting a fugitive on our land, but I also felt sorry for her, she looked so dignified, but I could see fear, and sadness in her eyes as well. I asked her what her husband had done, but she wouldn’t tell me, she said it was better I didn’t know. “He is innocent though Tess, you must believe me. He has done nothing wrong. He is a wonderful and noble man, his only crime is trying to help the people of this country, our home.”

“Tess, we must tell father! She can’t stay! I know it’s very sad, and I feel awful for her, but if she is discovered here there will be severe consequences for us, and we cannot afford any more problems.” Brian grimaced in pain as he tried to sit up.

“Brian you are not well, are you alright my brother? I’m sorry I was so lost in my story, I didn’t realise you were in pain! Let me call Mama!”

“No, no Tess, there is nothing she can do and it will only worry her. Please, get the pain medication Dr Herman left on the dresser. I will be alright after that.”

I ran and got the medication, but by the time I returned, Mama had already seen Brian’s pain, and was cradling his head on her lap, speaking softly to him. I gave her the medication and some water, and left them alone, retreating to my room. I couldn’t see Brian when he was like this, I didn’t want to cry in front of him because I knew it would only make him feel worse.

Khai wouldn’t tell me anything more about herself, or her husband. She told me she would be gone the next morning, and when I asked where she was going, she said it was better that I knew nothing about that as well. “Thank you, for your kindness, Tess. I will never forget it. Please, you must take this box of lace, I will not need it, and I would love to make a present of it to you. You should take my dresses as well. Leave me two, but please take the rest. I wont need them, and it is better they are not discovered with me, as it will make people suspicious.”

She got up, and pressed the box of lace into my hands. Then she walked to the suitcase and opened it, and ran her fingers gently along the silk, satin, and muslin fabric, caressing each one, as she said goodbye. I could see a tear sliding down her cheek.

“Oh, it is so silly to cry over these stupid dresses! They are nothing but fabric after all. It is for everything I’ve lost, that I am crying. For him, and our life together, gone now. Please Tess, don’t refuse! I need you to take these. Allow me to keep this one, my wedding dress, which I will sell, and this other one, the green silk, which was his favourite.”

I didn’t want to take the dresses, but she insisted. She stopped crying, and a hard look came over her face. “Enough of this now, you must go, Tess. We will see each other again, one day, I think. Keep well, my sister. Life will not always be good to you, but I hope God grants you an easier road than I.” With that she embraced me, and whispered Imbwa payadyira haipakanganwi (The place where a dog has fed it does not forget) in my ear. Lastly, she pressed something into my hand. A tiny piece of paper, with a word I didn’t understand. “Give it to your father, Tess.” I looked at her, begging for an explanation, but she just shook her head. I left then. She gave me no choice.

When I went downstairs again, Brian was by himself on the settee. He looked so frail. He has shrunk recently, the big brother I remember who used to give me piggyback rides and whirl me around has gone.

“Tess, you must tell me the rest of your story!” He smiled, weakly, and reached for my hand. Even his hand seemed smaller.

I told Brian the rest, but didn’t tell him about the dresses or lace, which I have hidden under the old piano in the attic. No one ever goes up there. I didn’t tell him about the note either. I gave it to father, and his face grimaced and he reached for his pipe which he only smokes when angry or worried. His short, frustrated gasps indicated anger, but why? He would not tell me anything, only asked me to call Mama and then dismissed me and hasn’t mentioned it again. Khai’s presence on our farm was no accident. I wish someone would explain how the pieces are connected. I wish I knew what that word meant.

I kiss my brother’s cheek, “How are you feeling now?”

“Oh, I’ll live, Tess.” He grinned at me feebly. “Listen, I want to say something. When I die, I don’t want you weeping and wailing for ages, understand? I want you to be happy, because I’ll be free from all of this. I’m not scared of dying anymore. Living like this, in so much pain scares me far more. Don’t cry, Tessie, not now, and not later on.”

“Brian, you will get better, I know you will!” I cling to him.

“Well, maybe I will Tess, I don’t know.” His face says the opposite.

Mother suddenly appears asking why I am crying, and Brian puts his arm around me. “It’s my fault Mama,” he replies softly, “I told her a sad story.”

My Brian. How will I live without you?

Oh Gran, I had no idea! You only mentioned Brian once, and I never thought to ask you about him. I remember you telling me he died from leukaemia at age twenty- three. I had no idea how close you were, or how much you must have missed him! I’m beginning to realise I placed you in particular role, and like all young people, I wanted you to stay that way. The girl in the diary is a stranger to me in many ways.

Mark comes in and puts the light on; it’s getting dark. He sits next to me and begins to rub my shoulders. I nestle against him, in his comfy old green jersey and he strokes my hair.

“Did I ever tell you about Brian? He was Tess’s brother who died, Mark. I never realised how close she was to him. It must have been absolutely heart- wrenching for her.”

“No you never did. That must have been hard for her and the whole family. Had she left when he died?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t read that far, but I think she had. Imagine having to make that decision! She was a woman of incredible strength.”

“Yes, she was. Very like you my love.”

He leans forward to kiss me, but I turn away. “No, I am not strong like she was. She would have fought this.”

Mark’s grip on my shoulders slackens, and the old grim expression replaces his smile. He puts his hand under my chin, and turns my head to face his, and looks at me in silence for a while. I can feel tears starting. It seems all I am good for these days is crying.

“Listen, Anna, you are strong. It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with you. If you want to conquer this you will. It will take some time, but I have complete faith in you. It’s time you let go, love, whatever that might involve. You couldn’t have saved her, no one could. Now you must focus on getting better, I need you to be well.”

“Don’t you think I don’t know that Mark? I try so hard to fight this. Each time it happens, I resent myself more, and I can see you resenting me too. Don’t deny it. You’re tired of this and you’re tired of me. You ask me to let go? How do you propose I do that? I loved her- she was a part of me. I don’t want to lose her. Don’t ask me to. Of course I want to conquer this, as you put it, but at the moment I am not capable of doing that. I am not strong enough Mark.”

I feel suffocated by his arm around me. I push it off me and walk to the window, opening it to let the cool air on my face. He gets up, and walks behind me.

“Anna, stop it. You know that’s not what I meant. I know how hard this is for you. I have lost people too, everyone has. You need to pull yourself together. The truth is Anna, you are afraid. You don’t want to conquer this thing, because, as you say, you don’t want to lose her, which is the stupidest thing I ever heard. She wouldn’t want you to remember her like this. You need to find that strength again- you have given up. I hate watching you like this, you are not yourself anymore.”

This can’t go on. “Will we get through this Mark? I don’t know if we will anymore? I feel guilty. I know I am not the person you thought I was. I see it every time you look at me.”

“Anna, Doctor Hanley says you will be fine, it just takes time. I’m not disappointed in you love.” He sighs and comes toward me, and takes both my hands and draws me to him, and we stand in an uneasy embrace, an uneasy truce.

“We will get through this,” he whispers in my ear, “We belong together.” I don’t know how long we stand holding each other, but it doesn’t get any easier.

“Mark, I’m sorry. I can’t do this any more. I love you, I always will, but right now, I can’t be in a relationship.” He pulls away from me, and his face is angry.

“Think carefully Anna before you start this.”

“I know Mark, but I have to. I haven’t been happy for a long time- I think you know that. At first I thought it was just because I was sick, and that was putting so much strain on us. I’m so sorry, Mark, I know how hard these last few weeks have been on you. It’s really unfair how I’ve dragged you through all of this.”

“Anna I care about you. I love you. I want to be there for you, it’s that simple. Don’t make this about you being ill. If it’s about that, then it’s silly. I still believe we can get through this, if you want to Anna. I know I do. I want you.” He reaches for my hand, serious gentle eyes resting on my face.

“I don’t know what I want anymore. I don’t know how to say this, but when I think about us, it doesn’t feel right for me. I feel like there’s something missing for both of us. I need some time to think about what it is I want, and who I want to be. I don’t love you as much as you deserve, Mark.”

He pulls his hand from mine and looks away. He asks me one more time to reconsider, but it’s done now. We both know it’s finished. He leaves.

I feel paralysed. Part of me wants to run after him, to tell him that it was all a stupid mistake and that I love him and want to be with him. The other part of me feels relieved. I just want it to be all over. I have to be strong like her. No more living a lie. I go into our room, my room, and I pull out his favourite jersey, an old brown one full of holes. It smells like him. I feel deflated suddenly. There’s a picture of us on my dresser. Mark with tousled brown hair and gentle eyes, smiling at me, revealing slightly skew front teeth that I found endearing. There’s me, with my mousey blonde hair blowing across my face in the wind, my grey eyes looking away from Mark, at something in the distance. I leave the picture there for now, putting it away wont make this easier.

December 14

Today another letter from John arrived. He is being very patient but I know that he wants an answer. I feel terrible keeping him waiting like this, but its such a massive decision to make I must be sure of my own heart. And I cannot leave my Brian.

My dearest girl,

Things continue as normal here, the after effects of the war are everywhere, but one starts to get accustomed to it after a while, and then one barely notices it. I can scarcely believe it is all over. The country seems torn, we are all unsure whether to be crying for those we have lost or celebrating peace. I can’t stop thinking about Harry, Tess, and George and Mitchell and Fibs and all the others. I can’t forget. I feel empty now, uncertain of what my next step should be.

I miss flying. Oh Tess, I can’t describe the feeling you get when you are in the air. Its pure exhilaration- you feel so free, and alone. The bullets come and the sky turns grey and the noise comes booming from everywhere.

The screaming starts and you dodge and miss and hit and fire and you don’t quite know what’s happening, and no one else does either and you pray, and the man next to you is praying and you’re alive, impossibly alive.

You watch the ones next to you drop from the sky, birds with holes in their wings, and you don’t know when you return who will be there with you, and you don’t care, you are just so grateful in that moment, to feel your own heart beating.

I felt triumphant every time I hit an enemy plane. The man with me would keep count of how many we managed to hit, although we were never quite sure in the chaos. It never felt wrong, Tess. I just remember indifference, and detachment, like someone else was sitting there in that plane, not me.

Home is strange. My brother is gone. We were never close but I feel his absence everywhere. I went to the library yesterday and there was a book left lying open on the table. It was just some random book about the future of trains, which I didn’t even know my brother was interested in. He had left it with the page marked Tess, he expected to return to finish it. The house is like a memorial to the lost and departed. Mama says she knew when he died. We have a clock in the house, a very ancient clock, passed down for centuries. The only time I can remember it chiming was when my father died when I was fourteen. It only ever chimes when a Markson dies, and Mama told me it chimed for my brother and she knew immediately that one of us was gone. My brother’s body was never returned to us. Mama goes sometimes to his grave but I cannot speak to an empty tomb. I think I need to escape from here. This place is crushing me.

I long for Rhodesia and I long for you. I am now working for a brick maker as a construction worker. I am going to try to get a job with the farm at the end of the road, for I was fascinated by what your father told me when I was on your farm and I have a mind to try my own hand at agriculture. Mama cannot support us as she did when we were children. During the war I honestly don’t know how she survived. Wealthy woman suddenly started washing their own clothes, and mother’s regular customers vanished, except for one or two who still couldn’t bear to get their hands dirty. Mother took in a few tenants who rented our rooms while we were gone, but they didn’t pay well, that is, when they paid at all.

Yesterday I remembered our walk into the vlei, when all the flame lilies were just coming out, and you were so happy, you picked a bunch of them for your mother. I picture your face, your nose crinkled up as you smile; the sound of your laugh, and everything feels better. I pray for the day I hear your laugh again to light up this grey world of mine. Please give my warmest regards to your family, I hope Brian is recovering, please send me news of him. I love you my Tess, and I pray you come to me soon, for I do not feel right anymore without you by my side. I understand if you need to be with your brother, I would never ask you to leave him. Take as much time as you need.

All my love,

John

Oh I feel so torn. Today Papa’s back was so painful he couldn’t get up out of bed, and Alfie and I had to milk the cows and instruct the boss boy and workers regarding the crops. It is exhausting work, I’m not surprised Papa is being worn down by it, and I am worried about what will happen when he is no longer able to continue. I think he must sell the farm, so does Mama, but for now he will not hear of it. This place is everything to him, he worked so hard to build it up from nothing. It is his dream and I can understand why he is so reluctant to let it go.

Brian was supposed to take over but there is no chance of that now. He is becoming increasingly weaker. I overheard Mama’s conversation with Dr. Herman; he told her he thinks Brian has another few weeks left, if that. Mama couldn’t stand when he told her. Her face drained of its colour, and she just flopped down to the floor, head in her hands and sat there for ages. Herman tried to comfort her, but what could he possibly say to make it better? I went and sat with her and stroked her hair. At first she didn’t seem to notice me there, but then she looked up, and the expression in her eyes felt like a punch to my stomach. She took my hand and held it, and neither of us could say anything. Eventually Mama got up, brushed off her skirts, and went to the mirror. She seemed to physically be readjusting her face, forcing herself to smile, and pinching her cheeks to bring back their colour. She wiped the tears away, and practiced looking like nothing was wrong. I could see her trying to gather her strength, to calm everything inside. She took a deep breath, and then came to me and offered me her hands to help pull me up.

“Come Tessie.” She pulled me up, and then held my shoulders and wiped away my tears. “No more tears, darling. We must not let him see us cry.” She patted the creases out my skirts, and smoothed my hair.

“It’s unfair Mama. Why Brian? Why my beautiful brother?”

She didn’t answer for a long time. “I don’t know, Tess.” And then she was gone, back to Brian, the smile fixed to her face. It was only a momentary crack in her disguise, she doesn’t allow her guard down often, especially not with her children, but somehow it was comforting to me. I have always looked up to my mother, but we never talk about anything meaningful. Its not that she avoids my questions, but if we don’t ask she wont tell us voluntarily. It’s the same with her emotions. Nobody is ever quite sure what Mama’s thinking, not even Father I don’t think, because she hides everything inside. I wish she would open up to me a little more. I’m older now and I want our relationship to change. I want her to be able to talk to me as one woman talks to another, as a friend.

I will always be her daughter but I need her to realise I’m an adult. I want to be able to tell her things but I always feel she will judge me if I am not as guarded as she is. With Brian, I think there is just too much to feel, if she let everything out I think she is afraid she would never be able to piece herself back together again. She needs the façade as much as we do.

I must talk to her about John, but I do not know how to bring it up. He did write to Papa, asking for my hand, and Papa gave his consent at the time, but has not mentioned it again since. I think Papa is scared for me. We have always been close and the thought of sending me to a foreign country, to be with a man he doesn’t know well at all, terrifies him. He thinks he will lose me, and he is probably right. John’s letters arrive every three months or so, they have to be ferried across the ocean. The thought of only having contact with my family every three months through a letter is frightening to me. I don’t know how I will leave them.

Alfie wants me to go and play chess with him and Brian. I don’t think I will play, but I will take the fabric for my new dress down and begin working on it, while I watch. It is such a beautiful colour! It’s going to be a sky blue dress with lace around the collar and sleeves, and tiny bows for buttons. I’m awful at sewing, but maybe I can convince Jeanie to help me if I offer her some extra bows in return. They are very sweet and she does love things like that. Her sewing is much better than mine, when Mama told us to begin work on our marriage chests Jeannie embroidered six handkerchiefs in the time it took me to do one, and hers were all so much better than mine! Poor John, I’m afraid I cannot offer him very much in terms of my marriage chest- after the first handkerchief I ran out of steam and went to the orchard with Alfie instead, to climb trees and pick apples. I should go and pick some for Brian later.

It’s Tuesday night, and Papa is going out again. Every Tuesday he leaves at the same time, and he will not tell us where he goes. Jeanie asked him last Tuesday, and he just shook his head, and said it’s best we don’t know. Mama purses her lips and looks at him for a long moment, and he kisses her and then each one of us in turn, including the boys. It’s as if he doesn’t think he’s coming back.

December 15

Jeanie is teaching me a duet she learned from her friend Patsy. I’ve never been very good at the piano, too little patience to practice, but I do love it, and the duet is rather sweet. Jeanie sings the words as we play, and sometimes Brian hums along with us as well. Alfie prefers the naughty songs he learns from his friends at school to our love songs. This morning I helped Mama make some bread, she allowed me to knead it, and we mixed in seeds, onions, and tomatoes. It smelt delicious, and it wasn’t long before Alfie was in the kitchen begging me for a slice with butter. Oh, there’s nothing like warm bread with melted butter! Even Brian managed a piece and said it was the best bread he’s ever had. Mama says I have rather a talent for bread making and I’ve always enjoyed cooking, when Judith and Mama let me. Or perhaps it’s rather the tasting I enjoy!

When I was small Judith would let me help her make cakes, which involved her doing all the work, while my grubby little fingers roved into the cake mix, tasting sample after sample of the delicious raw mixture. Sometime she even let me lick the bowl afterwards, and the spoon, and then I would sit on the table, in heaven as warm chocolaty sponge mix dribbled down my chin onto my dress. Judith would quickly make me run and change into a fresh dress while she washed the dirty one. It was our secret, she said, Mama would most definitely have disapproved. I used to have to fight Jeannie for the cake mix, but then she grew up into a fine lady too old for such things. For a short time I reigned supreme over the cake mix domain, then Alfie arrived and I didn’t bother competing with him, for he always wins. Being the baby and a boy I’m afraid he is rather spoilt, and one chubby grin from him and Judith would melt and he would get all the cake.

After I finished making the bread, I went to the yard to feed the chickens. Since Brian got sick I have more chores to do in the mornings, but I don’t mind, I enjoy the work mostly. Hattie is my favourite chicken. I nursed her when she was younger, because she managed to fall and hurt her leg and couldn’t keep up with the others. After the chickens I took Alfie his lunch. He had just moved the cows to the top paddock, and it was quite a climb to reach him! I enjoyed it though, it was a fresh, lovely morning, the flame lilies were out and I found a snake- skin almost as long as I am. I thought of the most delightful story as I was climbing the hill, all about a little boy who forgets his lunch one day when he goes out to herd the cows. He is very sad and hungry and sits and cries on the banks of the river until he hears a voice and looks up startled! It is a little black bull, the smallest in the herd that is talking to him, and at first Timmy is rather astonished and frightened, and then the bull asks him to do a very strange thing. He tells Timmy to unscrew his left horn, so Timmy does and then reaches into the horn and out pops a plate, a knife, fork and spoon, a tablecloth, serviette, salt and pepper and tomato sauce. Timmy starts crying again because he can’t eat cutlery and the bull tells him to stop being a baby and to unscrew his other horn. Timmy does so, and this time he pulls out delicious tomato soup, roast chicken and potatoes and chocolate pudding from the horn and he has a wonderful feast and is very happy and him and the little black bull are the best of friends for the rest of their lives, and Timmy grows rather plump from all the food. I told Alfie my story as we ate our sandwiches and he told me it was marvellous, and he wished we had a bull like that! I wish we did too. The farm is not bringing in enough money. I know Papa is worried, he is smoking every night now, and he never smiles and jokes with us any more.

Later, after I got back from the paddock, Mama instructed Jeanie and I on our sewing for a while. I think my dress will be quite out of fashion by the time I am through with it! I asked Jeanie for help but she refused. She bought the most divine fabric the other day- it is soft pink muslin with tiny little white flowers embroidered all over. She is making a dress to wear to the town dance in two weeks time, and I happen to know Henry thinks she looks very fetching in pink! So unlucky for me I suppose. Mama is despairing about my sewing skills, or lack there of. She thinks she has failed somewhat in her duties as a mother, although I keep telling her I’m just hopelessly unskilled, and it’s not through lack of effort on her part. Why, she’s had me sewing samplers since I was seven, it really isn’t her fault I’m no good at it. Alfie came strolling back from the paddock later that day, and I managed to escape and we went cycling to the orchard. We built a tree house there a few years ago, and we picked some juicy apples and then climbed into the tree- house and sat there munching.

We started discussing Alfie’s plans for when he leaves school. He is thinking about becoming an entomologist. I think it’s an excellent plan for he has always loved bugs- he drives Mother mad with all his ‘specimens.’ I remember the one day he brought a cockroach home, and somehow it managed to escape and wind up in Mama’s curler draw, and one day she reached for a curler and grabbed the poor unsuspecting little thing and I really don’t know who was more afraid, my mother or the cockroach! She flung it into the air and screamed, and went running down the corridor shouting for poison and a broom, and for her disgraceful son, who sheepishly arrived, specimen jar in tow, and swept up Monty before mother could get her poison filled hands on him. Needless to say, she made Alfie release Monty back into the wild. His butterfly collection is far less offensive to her delicate sensibility. He has butterflies from all over Rhodesia, and indeed, some he ordered from other parts of the world as well. They are all beautiful, but it makes me sad to see them all pinned up. They are such a symbol of freedom for me, somehow it just doesn’t seem right to see them captured like that, even if they are dead. Alfie tells me they only live for a day, and this way they last forever, always bringing joy to everyone that sees them, so really they are quite lucky. You can’t argue with Alfie!

December 18^th

I know what father is doing. I know what the word meant. I cannot write it here. I promised to keep silent. The secret is consuming me. It will change everything. Father and Mother told us all, last night. They said that we are old enough now to join them, and that if they are putting this family at risk we deserve to know about it, and to choose whether to be a part of it. I feel there is no choice.

I don’t know what the secret is! Gran never mentioned it. It is a strange thought that she was concealing parts of her life from us. I feel increasingly alienated from the girl writing the diary.

I’m polishing the spoons I inherited from my grandparents. The silver has changed to a dull grey, and speckles of rust infect the once smooth finish. My mottled reflection is distorted back at me, until I breathe on the spoon and it mists over, and I watch myself fade away, only to reappear. I play with the spoon for a while, holding it at different angles, exaggerating my features, and then I give it one last scrub and admit defeat. They’ve been left too long, they won’t be the same again. I like the imperfections though, they tell a story. I’m still wearing his jersey. He sent his friend around to pick up his things, I helped to pack them away into boxes, and then the friend asked for this jersey back and I said no. It’s my jersey now. He won’t miss it, its full of holes anyway. The spoons were my grandparents wedding present, they are very grand, far too precious for me to ever use. They sit in a box under the stairs, and this is the first time in five years I’ve taken them out. It seems like such a waste, but what could I actually do with them? I can’t use them as that could damage them, and if I display them I am worried they would be stolen. So I finish polishing them and back under the stairs they go.

I dress carefully, for my appointment with Edmund. I don’t want to explain the jersey, but I also don’t want to take it off. I keep it on, and put a jacket over it, hiding it. I don’t really want to see him. I decide to take the diary with me, I don’t know if I will let him read it, the idea of sharing you is hard, but I think he should know about it.

He is sitting at his desk when I enter, munching a sandwich that looks rather curious and smells even worse. He immediately gets up, and greets me warmly, but as he speaks a gust of garlic hits me, and makes my nose wrinkle.

“Sorry, dear, I know the smell is quite revolting but the taste is sensational! Pickled onion, garlic, marmite, tomato, and anchovy, the ultimate combination. Want to try a bit?”

I politely decline his kind offer, and sit down expectantly.

Tell me dear, how you are? How are the attacks? Are things getting any easier?”

“I think so Edmund. They are happening less frequently, and I’m starting to feel like I have more control when they do happen. I have power over my thoughts now. I’ve been reading her diary, and I think its been helping me somehow.”

“Ah, excellent my dear. I’m so glad that you feel you have more control. I imagine the diary makes you feel close to her. She sounds like she was an enterprising woman, I’m sure her diary is interesting.”

“It is, she feels like a complete stranger to me at times! I wish I had asked her more when she was alive.”

“Yes, my dear, I think we all experience that feeling when a loved one dies. You have the opportunity to get to know her in a completely new light. Now, teatime I think. The usual dear?”

“Yes, please Edmund. Can I help you? I know I am lucky, but it doesn’t feel like it’s enough. I want to know more. I actually had a crazy thought yesterday, I contemplated going to my grandparent’s farm which they built together in Zimbabwe.”

“Please, dear, stay where you are. Well that is an interesting thought! Who lives on the farm now? I often think that one should go with one’s gut feeling on these things, if you feel like you need to go to the farm for closure, then, in my opinion dear, you must go. Milk, one sugar yes? Perfect.”

“Thank you. War veterans took the farm about five years ago now. I don’t know who lives there now. I am scared to go back. I have such beautiful memories from my childhood, I don’t want to ruin them.”

“Well, Anna, the choice must be yours. I think it will hurt you to see the place you remember being filled with love and happiness, so changed. It won’t be yours any more, and I think that could bring up other feelings that you will find it difficult to deal with.”

“I just have questions that I feel can only be answered if I can get to the farm. I was skim reading the diary quickly and I came across an extract I didn’t understand. I think my Gran was involved in the Zimbabwean war for independence somehow, and I think something terrible happened to her on the farm. Something she never got over.”

“That is a lot for you to deal with, dear. Are you sure you’re not looking for answers you will later wish you hadn’t found? I sometimes think things are left unanswered for a reason. Some secrets should be kept, perhaps. Why do you feel you need to know these things? Will it change the way you feel about her? Probably not, so why then, dear?”

“I don’t know, Edmund! I just feel this urge to find out more. I want to know her, and this feels like the only way for me to do that. She never spoke of the war or the tragedy that happened on the farm. I want to know what happened, I want to know why she kept secrets from us. It feels important.”

Edmund got up suddenly, and went over to his draw and started rummaging for something. He had to empty it to find what he was looking for, and scattered bones, pieces of rock, driftwood, a sewing needle, thimble and odd glass bottles and jars all over his desk, like a fortune- teller casting a spell to foresee the future. Eventually he found what he was after, a tiny piece of meteor rock, shockingly heavy for its size, with little pieces of silver glinting in the hard metal.

“I think you should go, Anna. I think it will be hard for you, but from what you have said, you will not rest until you have the answers you are looking for. Take this rock, its from out of space, somewhere man has no knowledge of, and being a foolish old man, I’ve always believed it has lucky powers, which I hope will stand you in good stead, my dear girl. Now we must discuss your medication, I think that we are at the stage where we can lower your dosage? What do you think, Anna?”

The attacks have been less frequent but that medication has become my lifeline. The thought of weaning myself off it is not an appealing one, but I trust Edmund so must be guided by his judgement. What if something goes wrong while I’m away? I clutch the rock he has just given me, feeling its cold, smooth surface against my palm.

I am not a Zimbabwean citizen and getting a visa has been harder than I thought. Everything in that country at the moment seems to be designed to keep people away.

My last trip to Zimbabwe was to Victoria Falls, which can only be described as magical, a cliché perhaps, yet it is the truth. There is a special quietness to that place which is difficult to voice. You sit on the edge of the cliff, watching the water tumbling down, a solid line of tumultuous white horses, hooves like thunder, and you feel as if you are on the edge of the world. The droplets of the Falls form rainbows, and dragonflies and birds flit amongst the spray. In some places a shower of water soaks you, rain that doesn’t fall from the sky. Zimbabwe, you beautiful country, you are not my home, and yet, when I visited you I felt like I had never left. You come away from the beauty of the Falls, and are at once surrounded by vendors, selling everything from copper and bead bracelets, to cool drinks and one hundred billion dollar notes. There is a sense of urgency, of desperation in the people’s actions, they are competing to sell, competing to survive.

This time I won’t be driving, I will be flying. I don’t know what to pack. I don’t know what I will need. I take two sundresses, one pair of denim shorts, a pair of khaki shorts, three pairs of jeans, two long sleeved tops and five T- shirts. Too many? Too few? I don’t know. I’m not sure how long I will be. It might be too difficult; perhaps I’ll arrive and immediately turn back. Sunglasses, sunscreen, (how I remember the Zimbabwean sun. One day, when I was small, we went driving through the vlei. It was so hot, all the cattle were lying down and panting, and all motion slowed by lethargy. I was only four at the time, and it wasn’t long before I had stripped of all my clothes, and when the car stopped, I went bounding off and came across a large mud hole. Five minutes later, I could be found sliding on my tummy across the mud, each time seeing if I could go faster and further, screaming happily as the mud caked around me, forming a deliciously cool barrier. It was satisfying to peel it off when it dried and started cracking, like pulling off a second skin.) mosquito repellent, Malanil, hat, the list continues.

I pack the picture of you, in which you are holding me as a toddler, grinning down at me, making the ‘peak a boo’ face. I take your diary, and the tiniest elephant, that featured in all your stories. “Tell me a story, tell me a story!” I would say, while scrambling onto your lap as you sat in the big leather arm- chair. You’d always reply, “Tell me a story about Jack and Manorie, and now my story’s begun, tell me a story about Jack and his brother, and now my story’s done.” Jack and Manorie were two of the heroes of your tales, they went on dozens of adventures together, most of which I can’t remember. Strange how much we forget. The other favourite subject of our stories, were your carved collection of African elephants, made from soap stone, and starting with the largest elephant, about the size of a man’s hand, to the littlest elephant, my favourite, the size of an acorn. We lost him for a while, when I accidentally knocked him behind the book- case, but Gramps, after a lot of work and grumbling, managed to retrieve him.

You had two giraffes, carved from wood and painted in geometric patterns, which were more than twice my height. Every time I came back to the farm, it became a tradition for me to measure myself against the pair of giants and each time the distance between my head and the tops of their heads became smaller. If they survived, and are still perched as the peaceful overseers of the porch, I will tower above them now, seeing them from a new angle, as before it was always me looking up at them. There was a huge, resident iguana that lived under the patio, I wonder if he is still there?

I finish packing and I make a cup of tea. Gran used to say that everything in life could be solved by a good cuppa- an idea I follow faithfully. I wonder what happened to the other people that lived on the farm. All the workers and their families left suddenly destitute. I will always remember walking back to the main house down the airstrip, carefully avoiding snake holes and mole made speed bumps. There were two little boys playing in the dusk, with a cardboard box and an old tin paint lid. One was a tiny black boy with a smile that honestly made you want to spend forever making him laugh, and the other, a small coloured boy in a red beanie with cotton wool in his ears. They ran to the top of the hill, and the black boy climbed into the box, and held up his tin lid wheel, while the coloured boy pushed him down the slope, making noises like a car engine. They reached the bottom of the hill and the driver clambered out and they raced to the top again, and this time it was the coloured boy’s turn. He jumped into his racing car, and as he went down he yelled, ‘faster faster,’ and his car swayed, but defying gravity, he managed to stay inside and arrived safely at the bottom, chuckling at his own cleverness, and the tiny motor who ran so fast to push him, panted in between his laughter. Then they turned and began their ascent once more. Such joy in simple things. Maybe that’s what’s missing.

Bob the chef, who made the best tomatoes in the world and anything else you could possibly think of, had eleven children to support. Judith the cook and housemaid, was trying to save enough money to study at the local university, while also supporting her two elderly parents. All the children were educated at a school on the farm, run by my grandfather. Kind, the boss boy, was learning the trade of agriculture from my grandpa, and was saving for a farm of his own. However, it was a time of empire mentality, and my grandparents were colonials and lived that lifestyle, although they worked hard, they had servants in the house and a huge number of workers on the farm. Every week there would be a dance in Doma, and every month, a play directed by my grandmother casting the other white farmers and their families as the characters. She was famous for her plays, and she always used to tell me I would be in one, when I was small, but everything changed before that could happen. My grandmother was a farmer’s wife, and she was never idle, if she wasn’t out inspecting the tobacco, feeding the chickens and milking the cows, she could be found killing snakes that had wandered into the house (they particularly liked the cupboard in the dining room for some reason) or running down the airstrip, collecting grasses and flame lilies, out riding her horse, Bess, helping grandpa dip the cattle, cooking with Judith, tidying the house, working in her garden which was her pride and joy, or instructing the servants. Once she had children, she was a devoted mother, however, all her children had to leave at age six for boarding school, as my grandparent’s wanted them to have the best education possible, and there was no other choice available. Gran also loved to entertain, and in her pantry she had a large wall dedicated to teacups, beautiful, bone china, each set painted in a different design. I loved the one with the tiny pink flowers and the other set with the green swirls like waves.

That night, I lie in bed and sleep does not come easily. Too many thoughts circulating, like a buzz in my ear. I take out your diary, and turn to the next extract. You don’t write for some time after the last one, the dates are about a fortnight apart.

Numbness. That’s what I feel. The service was today. Apparently it was beautiful and the priest spoke well. I don’t remember. I was there, but I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there at all. I was with you, building forts in the vlei, reading fairytales in the orchard, stealing plums off Mr Fannigan’s prized fruit trees, running down the airstrip, looking for flame lilies. Brian. I dressed in my Sunday best, we all did. Mama came into my room and chose my black lace dress. It’s muslin, heavy and uncomfortable. She dressed me like she used to when I was little, and then sat for a long time on the edge of my bed, brushing my hair until it shone, and started coming out in long tendrils on the brush. She sang softly under her breath, the lullaby she used to croon to us when we were small. Her eyes were bright with tears; she was singing it to you, and to me. She dressed in her best black taffeta gown, and she wore bright flame lilies in her hair. Some people didn’t understand why she did that, but I knew she did it for you. She looked beautiful. Jean and I each put a flame lily in our buttonholes. Jean played the same song, the one you taught her, over and over again on the piano, watching her fingers as they moved, following the patterns your fingers taught them. Alfie disappeared. He came in just before the service, and his face was caked with dirt and ash. Mama looked horrified, and immediately started to wipe it away, but then she saw his face and stopped, and instead clutched him to her, and the two of them stood for ages, holding each other. Later, he told me he had burnt his butterfly collection.

Papa went to his fields, and chopped wood, until his face creased in agony, his back stooped, and he was unable to stand upright. He chopped wood, until Mama went to fetch him, leading him by the hand. He held your coffin and his hands shook, but his face was strong, strong for you. You asked us not to cry. Everyone sang All Things Bright and Beautiful, Mama’s voice was clear, but the rest of us couldn’t, we sat in silence, words lost in our mouths. Papa said some things about you, he said you were the bravest person he had ever known. He said he was proud of you, and that you would always be with us. He said how much he loved you; he tried to say what you meant to us. And then he couldn’t say any more. He put his head in his hands and he cried. I had never seen Papa cry before. He cried and cried. Mama went to him, and held him in her arms, and he leaned against her and wept like a boy. She didn’t cry. Jean couldn’t stop sobbing, and I could hear her praying, praying to you, the words choking her. Alfie sat and watched. His face was unreadable, unreachable, but I could see his hands gripping the edge of the pew, knuckles white. Then we laid you in the ground. Too much. Too much to bare. Alfie held Jean and me, Mama held Papa, and we said goodbye. We each had to toss some soil on top of you, it felt like we were burying you alive. Best friend, brother, part of me, my dearest, my love. We planted a lily on your grave.

I weep as I read it. I can’t stop thinking about your funeral and the way I felt. Some time after you left, Grandpa gave me your lipstick. It’s in a fabric, patterned lipstick case, red and green interwoven in geometric shapes. It’s dusty now, I don’t really look at it. It’s hidden in one of my drawers- I’m not even sure which one. I remember when he gave it to me; I was unsure what to do. It’s a red lipstick in a gold tube. I held it in my sweaty palm, and looked at the cracks in my lips in the mirror, caused by summer’s heat. I think of you, your lips, now dead, cold, eaten by maggots, dripping into the ground. Those, the lips this lipstick last touched. But also lips that kissed me, and I remember the smell of an old woman, stooped back, who always knew exactly what to say to a scrap of a girl who only dressed in pink and had tea parties every day. I take the lipstick out its case and hold it up to my face, unwind it from its tube and examine its colour, more coral than red. I remember you wearing it, or maybe I just imagine. I paint a red smile on my lips, careful to stay in the lines, but it makes me want to vomit, such a sad clown, so silly, I run to the bathroom and scrub it off. Only the traces remain, colour seeped into the cuts on my lip, like blood. How I miss you, but I didn’t know you.

Someone wise once said that grief is like a cigarette addiction. It hurts so much in the beginning, you crave a cigarette all the time, and then you start to crave it less. You get used to it not being a part of your life. The cravings never go completely, but the spaces in between them grow larger, until something reminds you, anything, glass bottles lined up in the sunlight, the smell of a second hand shop like the smell of your wardrobe, poppies growing on the side of the road, and suddenly the craving is there, as strong as it ever was. It’s impossible not to miss you, but I miss you less.

Greg dropped me off early this morning. His face was worried, he doesn’t know if I should be doing this. Neither do I, but I’m about to board the plane. No going back now. In the air, weightless, bouncing off the clouds. I love to fly, must be something I’ve inherited from my Grandfather. Zimbabwe, I’m almost at your gates. Be kind to me.

The airport is so small, there are a surprising number of people and it takes me a while to get through customs. The official is a woman, who is very friendly, she greets me with a wide, genuine smile, and I see a gold tooth glinting at me as she asks me for my name and the purpose of my visit. I tell her it is to visit relatives for a holiday, and she wishes me a pleasant trip, stamps my passport, checks my visa and I’m through!

Geoff is there, waiting for me. I haven’t seen him in years, and his face has changed. It is an old face now, full of lines and worry. The smiling uncle I remember has been replaced by a man who looks like he is a stranger to laughter. He kisses my cheek and surveys me, and I can feel he is not happy to see me. My grandfather divided his farm into three, so that he could farm alongside his two sons. Geoff used to have a prosperous cattle farm, which was claimed by war veterans eight years ago, along with the other two farms. Anger and resentment are cruel mistresses. They have not been kind to Geoff. I climb into his bakkie and we leave off for Borrowdale Brook, a security village about an hour out of Harare.

The roads are hazardous, the Zim drivers challenge even the South African taxi drivers with their speed and cunning and disregard for the rules. The streets are bustling, everywhere you look there are vendors and men and women haggling for goods. There’s a mini market with an old man, with round spectacles, smoking a pipe, seated cross- legged by his wares- Zimbabwean carvings out of serpentine stone and ‘leopard rock’ predominantly of figures, faces intertwined, a mother and child, or animals like giraffes and elephants. It is easy to see why Picasso was so inspired by African sculpture and art, even though we drive past quickly, and I only get a glimpse, these faces are faces from my childhood, and the carvings are intricate and beautiful demanding much skill passed down through the generations. Next to the man there is a group of women selling brightly coloured fruit laid out in woven baskets, all screaming and talking at once, dressed in a mix of Western clothing, and a whole range of fabric, printed in ethnic designs, some with tiny babies strapped to their backs. A little way along a child plays with a motorbike made from wire, while his friend, a little girl with pink bobbles on her braids, wheels a tire down the street, followed by a stray dog, similar to a Rhodesian ridgeback. We start to leave the city and the landscape changes, it becomes less chaotic, more suburban and the plots of land grow noticeably larger.

Borrowdale Brook and the neighbourhood around it, seems completely out of place in a country with such a broken economy. We drive past one house on the hill that apparently belongs to a government minister, and has about twenty bedrooms for just him and his wife, like an English country estate. Mugabe lives by Borrowdale Brook in his mansion, but all you can see is a massive wall designed to keep people out. My uncle’s house is a three story mansion, with a garden full of trees and birds, set on a large plot of land, at the top of a hill. It feels slightly surreal, this small village, castles in a backdrop of devastation.

There’s a beautiful golf course and a shopping mall in the village, and once I’m settled, we walk down to the shops and I take a good look around. Most of the houses are two- story, with large, well looked after gardens. I ask Geoff what its like living here, and he takes a while to reply.

“It hard, Anna, but its my home. I love it here, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, and I certainly could not have this life style anywhere else. They can’t force me to leave, as hard as they may try. I’ve worked hard to be able to support my family and afford to live in a place like this, but it’s not always easy, you feel so disconnected from the rest of the country. I look out and I see mansions built for ten people, inhabited by a single man, and I think about all the men and women who worked for me, and wonder where they are now, what their lives have become and it makes me feel ill. I still hear from some of them. Some of them blame me, they think of me as a white farmer who stole their land and deserved what he got. Others cry to me on the phone, begging me to start farming again to give them their jobs back, or for money and support. I can’t help everyone.” He sighs and looks around him. “Its not easy, Anna, not easy at all. Some weeks there’s no water, other weeks there’s no electricity. I had to raise the money to have a borehole put in for the village, but even that’s not always reliable. I don’t bother watching TV any more, there’s just so much censorship and propaganda, there’s no truth. Callie is getting sick of it. She wants to move, she doesn’t understand why I’m so desperate to stay in a place where I’m obviously not welcome.”

We arrive at the shop and I’m startled by its size and the variety of goods on offer. We choose some brie and smoked salmon for sandwiches, and some rolls, and then set off back to Geoff’s house. Callie is waiting for us, with a wonderful fresh salad and strawberries. We sit on the balcony, and Geoff points out various birds that live in his garden, including the paradise flycatcher and a variety of bee-eaters. I must remember to tell Edmund, he would be in his element here! I haven’t seen Geoff since Gran’s funeral, so we spend a while catching up. Then its time for me to ask him, and I immediately feel everything change. Callie gets up and leaves the table.

“What the hell, Anna? I don’t know what is going through your head. Maybe you don’t quite understand the situation or something. You can’t understand it if you are asking me to take you to the farm. It makes me want to vomit every time I go there. I see them sitting around our table, using our family silver, their children reading our books, playing with our toys and sleeping in our beds. Everything that was ours, that made that place home, is now theirs. The farm is desolate, there’s only a handful of cows remaining from what was a herd of thousands, and the crops are all dead, except for a small field of maize. The wild life has all been shot, and the farm machinery is rusting and broken. Thousands of American dollars worth of equipment is useless now. The head of the family is an aggressive overweight idiot, who threatens to shoot me whenever I go near the place to take back our property. The only way I’ve been able to get the family albums, and a few of the more valuable and sentimental items back is by bringing in a group of armed white farmers and the police. I won’t take you there, Anna, and you have no right to ask me to. I will not let you return there. The place you remember is gone. There’s no point risking our lives. It’s a mess, Anna, a broken, desolate, fucked up mess.” He gets up abruptly and I can see him shaking with anger. I am left with the paradise flycatchers and the bee- eaters.

Later I approach him again. He is sitting at his desk going over a list of figures, his chin leaning on his hand.

“Geoff I think that something happened on the farm, something Tess never spoke of. I’ve been reading her diary and in some of the extracts, there are hints that she was involved in a secret, that I think was related to the Rhodesian war for Independence. I need to go back to the farm, because I think that’s the only place where I will find answers.” Geoff looks up at me, and his eyes are blood shot. He reaches for a cigarette, and lights it with a slightly unsteady hand.

“Drop it Anna. There’s nothing left of Mum on that farm. As I said before, everything that made it ours is either gone or belongs to them now. I’m not going back there, and neither are you.” He doesn’t look at me as he says it, and I can see a muscle twitching at the corner of his mouth, and as I walk away I catch Callie concealed behind the door, listening.

I rest that afternoon, and I can’t stop thinking of you. I take out your diary, and sniff the familiarity of it.

I feel lonely. It is crushing at home. No one laughs any more, it is just silence all the time. I must get out. I go for a walk. The city is busy, and dusty. The jacaranda is in bloom, I walk over the flowers that have dropped to the pavement, and they make a quiet noise of protest as I crush them under foot. Can flowers feel pain? I hope not. But these have already fallen. There’s a bird that has dropped out of its nest, lying in the gutter. Little featherless baby, shivering, alone, it can barely lift its head. Its eyes are glazed over; it knows it is the end. It waits for its mother, but she never comes. I should kill it, but I can’t. I’m too weak, and so I let it suffer. I watch it die and do nothing. Death, it seems, is everywhere. I’m sorry little friend. I walk away but I cannot get the bird out of my mind. I go back and scoop up the now lifeless form, and I walk to the grass, and dig a hole with my hands, and I lay it in there, and cover it with soil and then jacaranda flowers. I say a prayer for it, and then get up slowly. I realise I am crying, I wipe the tears away and smear dirt all over my face. I dig in my pocket, no handkerchief. Brian would have laughed at me and tousled my hair, he always kept a spare hankie with him just for me. I use my sleeve. Mother will be furious, I will wash it before she notices. I wander around for a while. I feel like I’m in a dream, I am looking around me, but not really seeing anything. The colours seem so bright, my eyes hurt, and I can feel I am getting a headache. Perhaps I should go back. But as I turn for home, finally, something holds my eye, and I see a little shop on the corner, with a wedding dress in the window. It’s Khai’s dress, I’m sure of it.

I feel drawn to it- my feet are already walking towards it before my mind processes it’s there. I enter the shop and see a woman at the till. She barely acknowledges me, just looks up and nods and then immerses herself in her novel once more. It’s a romance looking at the picture on the cover. I move to the dress in the window and stand looking at it. I didn’t really look at it properly when Khai took it out the suitcase. It’s exquisite. It’s a corseted bodice covered in silk with a pattern of roses made out of tiny seed pearls. The sleeves are made from lace, embroidered with pearls. The skirt is full, with a train, and there is a lace trim at the bottom. I cannot take my eye away from it. I approach the till and the woman looks up. She is in her late forties I would guess, with dyed hair, lots of wrinkles caked in make up, that does nothing to disguise their presence, and smoking a cigarette between gaudy red lips.

“Well?” she asks curtly, in an American accent. “What can I do for you?” She puts aside her book reluctantly, leaving it open on the page and I catch a glimpse of some of the text. It makes me blush, and she sees and laughs at me. “Quite the innocent aren’t you? Well, what can I do for you dear, speak up, I want to get back to my book.”

“I want to try on the dress in the window.” I point at it, and she smiles revealing yellow teeth.

“Getting married are we? It’s lovely isn’t it? Strange woman brought it in. Seemed very edgy indeed, didn’t ask much for it. I jumped on it of course. Not often I get a bargain like that. Who’s your fellow then? How did you meet?”

“I met him during the war, he was a pilot. He came and stayed with my family on our farm for a while. His name is John. What did the woman look like? Did she tell you anything about herself?”

“That’s nice dear, nothing like a soldier is there?” She laughed, which turned to a dry hack, and she gulped down a swig of gin and took a long puff on her cigarette before she continued.

“The woman told me nothing. Black girl, very attractive face, bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. She was in a hurry, she kept looking over her shoulder as if she was in trouble. She laid the dress out on the counter, gave me a price, I paid and she left. She seemed sorry to part with it, she kept touching the lace, but she didn’t hang around. I wish she’d told me more- I do love a good story. Why are you so interested cherie?” Her eyes suddenly turned on me, a surprisingly searching look.

I falter slightly as I reply, and her look intensifies, her drawn- on eyebrows settling in a frown. “No particular reason, I just thought it would be nice to know a bit of history about the dress. It’s so beautiful, I was curious about how somebody could ever give it up.”

“It’s just a dress darling. It’s very nice and all, but if you need money, you need money. Circumstances change honey, it’s not just fairytales in this life. Now, I don’t know that woman’s story, but I know enough stories to guess something went bad in the marriage and she was looking for a way out. The dress meant money, money means freedom. It’s sad but its life. You be careful before you go getting married. You’re young, sweetheart, you got a lot of growing up to do, you make sure you not rushing in to something you’re going to regret, alright?” She took another drag on her cigarette, then stumped it out and walked over to the dress. “It looks about your size, honey. I’ll take it down then you can try it.”

She carefully removed the dress from the manikin, then took it to the change room, gesturing at me to follow her. Once we were there I thought she would leave but she stayed, and lit up another cigarette, offering me one. “Well darling, off with your clothes then. I’ll leave if you want, but you’re going to need me to help you get into the dress, and you aint got nothing I haven’t seen before.” She smiled, more gently this time. I felt uncomfortable but I couldn’t tell her to leave. I carefully started to unlace my dress, and she put her cigarette between her lips and helped me. I pulled the dress up over my head, and stood only in my underclothes. “Darling, those have to come off as well. You can’t have anything underneath.” She started to unlace my under garment, and I could feel my face flaming up. I felt so exposed, only my mother had seen me naked before, and now suddenly this stranger was undressing me. She pulled my undergarment off, and suddenly there was nothing, and I immediately pulled my arms across my chest, and tried to hide from her. I could feel her looking at me. She laughed and pinched my cheek. “You are an innocent aren’t you love? Don’t you worry, we’ll have you in the dress in no time.” She unlaced the corset on the dress, and then pulled it over my head, and yanked the skirt to the ground over my hips. She laced up the corset so tightly I could barely breathe, and then she spun me around and looked at me. She seemed sad for an instant, like she was remembering. “You are beautiful. It’s as if it was made for you, and I’m not just saying that to persuade you to buy it. I think sometimes things are meant to be, and you were meant to have this dress. You remind me of myself when I was a young bride to be. I’m going on like a stupid old woman, go and look at yourself- the mirror is over there.” She pointed to the corner of the room, to a large full- length mirror propped up against the wall.

I go to it, holding my breath, partly because the corset is so tight, but also because I’m terrified all of a sudden. I look at myself, blonde hair pulled back with a black ribbon, blue eyes, still murky, seeped in sadness, dead birds nesting in my pupils, pale face, lips turned down at the corners, first lines appearing under my eyes. The dress encases me, holds me, and I know that she is right- it was made for me. Suddenly, I’m a bride, an adult; ready to be yours. I know what I must do.