Crime Beat

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BUT THE STORY’S NOT OVER YET!

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INSTALLMENT THIRTY-ONE

I’m a stalker.

It’s a word with sinister connotations. It’s even less ethical than fox hunting. At least that has a sporting element although the foxes probably don’t see it in that light. Stalking sounds armed and dangerous. Not an activity that anyone would associate with me. I’m a popular socialite. Elegant and stylish. The perfect wife and mother. No-one knows that there’s another role that I hanker after as much as any of those I’ve mentioned. I’m an under-cover granny. I stalked my grandchild. I sound like a raving paedophile but nothing could be further from the truth. Angela looks just like Lisa. I wanted to pick her up and smother her with kisses. I couldn’t bear to think that I’d never be part of her life.

My stalking career began quite by chance. It was the day after we’d met Jessica and Juan at our stiff and stilted interview at KP Adoptions the week before Angela was born. We also met Beryl. Both Lisa and Jessica brought their mothers to the negotiating table. I didn’t realise quite how high the stakes were at that stage.

It seemed like fate when they pulled up beside me at the robot. Divine intervention. Statistically, the chances of it happening were close to zero. I recognized them immediately. Dread snaked through my chest with icy fingers. My stomach churned and knotted. My hands grew clammy as they tightened around the wheel. The car felt claustrophobic.

I knew it would be different in their car.

It was a white BMW. The 5 Series. Naturally. Inevitably. I knew they’d drive a car like that. I couldn’t see Jessica’s face. Her hair was thick and blonde – sleek and styled like the women you see in the brochures you page through at the hairdresser’s. I knew there would be labels on all the clothes she wore – brand names from Rome and Paris and the fashion capitals of the world. Jessica shopped at the same places as I did myself. Not like Lisa – she bought all her clothes at the flea market. I watched as Jessica leaned over and touched Juan’s cheek. Beryl reached forward from the back and squeezed Jessica’s hand. I felt particularly hostile towards Beryl. She was the granny-to-be. She was the one who would usurp my role.

I willed myself to look away. I thought the lights would never change – Cape Town must have the slowest robots in the world. But when they turned to green, I slid into the lane behind and followed them.

I couldn’t stop myself.

It proved surprisingly easy to keep them in my sights. More divine intervention. On a normal day, the robots on Main Road aren’t noted for synchronicity. I expected to be trapped by a red or orange light. I anticipated watching helplessly as my quarry sped off without me. But it didn’t happen. At each intersection, the robots slotted exactly into the time-frame I needed. The car turned left at the Kenilworth intersection. I felt surprised when I realised that they were heading for the factory shops at Access Park. Even yuppies like a bargain…

My stomach retied itself in knots when I saw their destination. There were SALE notices on all the windows. The shop was crowded and parking was at a premium. I had to watch from a sideline as they parked and headed across street to the entrance. I could read their body language, even with a stretch of tarmac to divide us. I knew they were excited.

My radar picked them up when I slid into the shop behind them. I tried to make my way unobtrusively towards them. My hands sifted aimlessly through random products on a nearby shelf. I forced myself to look. Jesus. The shop stocked products I never knew existed. Enormous feeding bras, tailor-made to fit a woolly mammoth. Nipple caps. A steam humidifier promising to banish air-pollution. Giant bottles of Purity. A device with an audible signal to monitor room temperature. Another one which rang an alarm if it detected babies crying. Educational playpens. A baby in the new millennium appeared to require more strategy planning than the D-day invasions on the beaches of Normandy.

I was close enough to be in earshot. They were standing by the prams. Up-market prams – they wouldn’t have looked out of place on a Grand prix circuit. Jessica seemed to think the same.

‘But Mom! Look at the price! I can’t pay this for a pram! How long will a baby need a pram? It’s hardly a long term investment!’

‘It’s far too much!’ Juan nodded, examining the price-tag. ‘We’re going to have to buy a container to get all this back home!’ His voice had strong European inflection. I could hear he was Spanish.

Beryl swept aside their protests.

‘But I want you to have it. I insist! It’s got all the safety features. I want it to be special….’

‘You’re getting totally carried away! We can’t justify it!’

Jessica laughed and shook her head as she argued with Beryl. “This range is cheaper,’ she gestured.

As she turned to show Beryl the alternative, she caught a glimpse of me watching. Recognition sparked like a current across the crowded aisle. Her face froze. The intake of her breath was audible. She clutched Juan’s arm and he turned to look to look in the direction she was pointing.

But I’d already gone. I left the shop as silently as I’d entered.

The pavements were mercifully crowded and I knew they’d lost sight of me. I sidled furtively back to my car. I felt like a common criminal as I crept into my seat, peering over the dashboard to see if I was being followed. I don’t quite know what I expected them to do. I felt guilty about being there. It seemed as though Juan would be quite within his rights to call the police and comb the car park with sniffer dogs and loaded machine guns at the ready. I knew I was being ridiculous. I spoke sternly to my heart and hands. I told them not to flutter. I told them to sit quietly in the car and wait – to wait until my quarry walked out of Baby City. I told my heart not to flinch as I watched Juan load the pram into the boot, along with all the other laden packets.

But my hands ignored me when I told them not to turn on the ignition and follow when they drove out of the car-park and headed for home. I crept along behind them until they turned into a block of town houses in Claremont. I parked in a fortuitous shadow and watched as Beryl got out of the car. I took fright and accelerated into the distance when Jessica and Juan reversed out of the driveway. I was terrified they’d see me.

But I’d made contact. I knew where Beryl lived. And she was my main rival. She was the one who was going to be Angela’s granny instead of me.

*

My father’s death was an enormous blow despite the fact that he was old. He’d always been old. I believed that he would live forever. He was drifting in and out of consciousness by then so I knew it was time to say goodbye. But I felt as if I’d been cast adrift in the Pacific Ocean with no land in sight. My mother was as rudderless as me without my gentle father. Some people are irreplaceable. She faded quickly after that. It was as if someone switched her lights off. They both died within a year of Angela’s birth which was right and fitting. For them. Not for me. I took their deaths very badly.

I suspect the seeds of my subsequent depression were sown then though no-one would have guessed. I shouldered on like Pollyanna. No-one mentioned Angela. She must have haunted all our dreams but we didn’t talk about her. We chatted about the people at the office. We talked about matric and what Lisa would wear to the dance. Who she’d go with. Lisa stopped going to counseling and she started flying. We shopped for clothes and packed her suitcase when she got the job at Barnum Wells in London. It was as if her pregnancy had vanished into the deepest part of the pond without leaving as much as a ripple behind it.

But it wasn’t like that at all, underneath the surface. It was already me and them, even before Lisa and Eric were born again. It was me who insisted on the adoption. You can’t gloss over such a major issue. I’m not saying they stopped loving me or that suddenly we had nothing in common. No-one in our social circle would ever have suspected that anything was different. Not even Beth and Keith. Maybe not even Lisa and Eric. But I knew that I’d done something irrevocable by insisting that Lisa gave her baby away.

I know more about depression now that I’m on medication. The symptoms include over-reaction and brooding. Small issues become mountains when you’re feeling down. I needed help but I kept that a secret. Even from myself.

*

My days became alarmingly empty once Lisa left for London. The hours between bridge and book club seemed like a yawning canyon that I couldn’t hope to cross. I started to find reasons to avoid both of them. I was too tired. Anyone who slept as little as I did would have been tired. I could hardly face getting up in the morning. The only thing that could get me out of bed was Angela. Not Angela herself. A glimpse of Angela in the distance was all I needed to keep my engine turning.

I started driving past Beryl’s town-house. I lurked around trying to complete a jigsaw of her daily movements. At our stiff and awkward meeting at the hospital when we met, Jessica had said that she was planning to continue working after Angela was born. Beryl had opted to be in charge of child-care. She positively glowed at the prospect I had dreaded. The thought of looking after Angela on a daily basis was precisely what had made me recommend adoption to my daughter. But it was all that I wanted to do once I heard that Beryl had opted for my role.

I soon learned their routine. I used to park and watch as Jessica unloaded her Lisa look-alike and handed her over to supervision from her grandma. Beryl often brought Angela out to the car to wave goodbye to mummy. I didn’t go every morning. I varied my routine. Sometimes I went to watch the collection at around 5.30. Sometimes Juan would pick her up and sometimes it was Jessica. I turned green with envy as I watched my grand-daughter getting bigger and turning into a little person.

I got bored. It wasn’t very exciting to watch Angela being dropped off and picked up – but it was safe. My camouflage tree hid my car from sight. Even a chameleon couldn’t have blended into the background more discretely than I did. But it certainly wasn’t riveting to watch Angela being strapped and unstrapped from her car seat. The only thing I ever saw her do was wave.

I made a fool of myself the first time I attempted something more ambitious. Beryl’s routine was different that day. She usually took Angela and closed the door. The garden wasn’t visible from the road so I couldn’t watch her building blocks on a blanket on the lawn. All the things that drove me mad with boredom when Lisa was her age. Suddenly the prospect seemed as mesmerizing as a West End show in London.

Beryl obviously had plans the day I stepped my stalking career up a gear or two. She locked the front door and loaded Angela into her car instead. I felt a thrill of anticipation as I followed them down the road. It was easy. Beryl must be the slowest driver in the universe. Maybe she was anxious with so precious a cargo in the back seat. I wondered where we were going. It was a bit of an anticlimax to find that we were aiming no further than Pick ‘n Pay.

I watched as Beryl loaded Angela into a trolley and set off inside. I followed. God knows why. I can’t imagine what I planned to do. I thought there was probably little chance that Beryl would even remember who I was. She’d only met me once before Angela was born and she was nearly three by then. I’m surprised I wasn’t arrested by security as I pushed my empty trolley in Beryl’s wake, leering past the soap powder to see what they were doing.

I took a stupid risk. Beryl left her Angela-laden trolley for a moment while she turned to look through the meat selection. I happened to be watching from the biscuits at that stage. Lisa had always loved zoo biscuits. I grabbed a packet from the shelf beside me and scuttled over and handed them to Angela. My heart went into its somersault routine as I watched her plump fingers grasp the only gift I’d ever given her. I bolted back to my biscuit viewpoint. Beryl looked bemused when she what Angela was holding when she returned with her boerewors and chops.

‘Where did you get the biscuits my angel?’ she asked her. They were flanked by pyramids of baked beans and sweet-corn. She couldn’t have reached out and taken it from the shelf. Angela yelled in protest when Beryl tried to take the biscuits away. I felt absurdly delighted when she gave up and let her keep them.

I was as mad as a bloody hatter.

I felt quite panic-stricken when Beryl headed towards a till. I was afraid that I might lose out on a visit to the park or somewhere more inspiring than the aisles at Pick ‘n Pay. My trolley was still empty so I grabbed about twenty of the nearest tins and hurried to a down-wind till where I thought they wouldn’t spot me. I’d bought dog food I noticed as I unpacked my trolley for the cashier. It was an unfortunate choice. Our dog had been dead for years. I had to drop it off at the SPCA on the way home. The receptionist probably also thought I was as mad as a hatter when I expressed my sudden concern for dogs in captivity. Maybe the gods were trying to drop a hint about Eric’s future. Unfortunately I missed their point and stalked on regardless.

*

I lost whatever shreds of perspective I had left the day I followed Beryl and Angela into the travel agent. Fortunately, they chose to book at Gateway Travel which is huge. They’ve got car-hire kiosks and passport collection terminals and sections for both overseas and local travel opportunities. Angela didn’t behave very well. She unpacked all the travel magazines and threw them on the floor. I managed to resist the temptation to go over to help. Poor Beryl looked decidedly flustered as she fished out a toy selection from her handbag to divert Angela for as long as it took to make the booking.

My eaves-dropping ears pricked up when I heard what she was saying. Beryl is a charming woman as I soon found out when I got to know her. She’s not at all like me. She’s always been a career housewife. She never felt restless and bored. She was widowed early but because her husband left her reasonably well-off, she never had to work. She focused all her attention on Jessica. She talked endlessly about her daughter’s achievements and was equally complimentary about her son-in-law. Juan’s Spanish origins, combined with his career in movies, provided glamour and excitement to a home bird like Beryl. I could hear her telling the luckless travel agent all about it as she poured over the brochures on the table between them.

“My daughter’s husband is in the movie industry,’ she confided. ‘He wants to shoot some Russian footage. Something about the light. And the architecture of course. He’s working on a documentary comparing the way South Africa and Russia are evolving after years of oppression.’ She prattled on as I strained my ears to hear what she was saying. I was definitely more interested than the travel agent. I gathered they’d decided to kill a couple of birds with a single stone. Jessica needed a holiday. Juan needed a film location. And Angela needed a baby sitter. My ears had turned into vacuum cleaners by the time she left.

I’d been a very low-profile stalker up until then but I was seized by a brilliant idea as I pretended to read the brochure in front of me. A cruise through rural Russia. That sounded pretty remote. They couldn’t escape me in those circumstances. No-one would jump overboard into the Volga. I’d pretend it was all a ghastly co-incidence that we’d ended up on the same cruise. It couldn’t be as big a ship as the floating sky-scrapers you find in the Med or on the Caribbean. I’d have ten days to make friends with Angela. I was desperate to get to know her. To see if she was as like Lisa as she looked. With sudden resolution, I moved into the seat that Beryl had vacated.

‘I couldn’t help overhearing what you were talking about to your last customer,’ I smiled. I can be every bit as charming as Beryl if I make the effort. ‘It sounds exactly what I have in mind. Do you still have places for two on the same cruise?

She did. There isn’t a stampede of eager South Africans trying to make their way to Moscow. The prospect of multiple palaces, suspect toilets and a surfeit of cabbage and beetroot has limited appeal, even for me. But I made a firm booking and handed over my credit card before I had a chance to change my mind. I was in somersault mode as I slugged back a double expresso at the coffee bar in an effort to calm my nerves and perfect my story.

I couldn’t take Eric. I knew he’d summon a helicopter and airlift us back to Frankfurt once he found out who our fellow passengers were. I congratulated myself on my cunning. Angela’s clan was flying Air France. I chose Lufthansa. I didn’t want any mid- air confrontations buggering up my well laid plans. Eric knew nothing at all about the way I filled some of the portions of my day while he went off to Irvine Investments with Beth. I hadn’t told her either but she was the one I’d set my heart on as a travelling companion. I knew I could rely on her to understand once she learned the truth.

Everyone was very encouraging when I told them about my spontaneous holiday decision. They knew the last three years had been traumatic. I’d lost a grandchild and my daughter and both my parents. I’d also lost about 10 kg. I wasn’t looking my best. Everyone thought a holiday would do me the world of good. No-one queried my choice of destination. It seemed somehow logical that I would choose a place as far away as Russia.

‘I think somewhere completely foreign might be exactly what you need,’ said Eric. ‘I believe Russia’s beautiful. And this way you’ll see St Petersberg and Moscow as well rural Russia. It’ll be fascinating. I wish I could come with you.’ I didn’t push that option. Beth’s always game for anything offbeat. We both poured over the book the travel agent gave us on travelling by river. It was written by an American who’d spent years in Russia. He said cruising was the ideal way to travel. Russia’s not a self-drive, bed and breakfast destination like Europe and the States. Bad roads, unreliable maps, highway bandits and lousy accommodation were almost guaranteed if you chose to travel by train of car. I didn’t need any convincing. I was sold on the prospect even before I read the book.

We both grew more excited by the day. Russians sounded as chameleon a species as me. The book said they look much like the average American but that this belied a culture, history and approach entirely different from anything you’d find in London, Paris or New York. He said it was simultaneously maddening and enchanting. I pushed my Angela agenda into the deepest part of my suitcase and enthused as if it was a real holiday I’d suggested.

*
The airport at St Petersberg isn’t very user friendly. I didn’t feel as confident about being reunited with my luggage as I did in Singapore or Atlanta. The customs officials weren’t selected for their personality. They were silent and poker-faced. Someone important must have been scheduled to arrive because there was a strong military presence in the foyer. It created an uneasy atmosphere, especially for someone with a hidden agenda like mine. I hoped the radar wasn’t programmed to identify stalkers when I walked through the metal detector.

I relaxed a bit on the way to the boat. I hadn’t expected leafy suburbs and blue skies. According to statistics, St Petersberg has an average of fifteen cloud-free days a year – and we arrived on one of them. It seemed like an omen as we made our way to the harbour where M/S Sholokhov was moored. It looked more impressive than we’d anticipated as we walked across the gangplank dragging our suitcases behind us. Beth wanted to have a look around but I hauled her off to the cabin. I was absolutely terrified we would run into Angela. My brilliant plan suddenly seemed insane. I wished I was safely at home in Cape Town with Eric. I wished I was anywhere on the planet other than aboard M/S Sholokov.

I was briefly diverted from panic mode on arrival at our cabin. It looked more like a walk-in broom-cupboard. Beth and I were giggling like schoolgirls as we surveyed the
en-suite facilities we’d been promised in the brochure. The shower appeared to be over the toilet.

‘It’s actually a masterpiece of East German engineering,’ said Beth admiringly as we drew the shower-curtain and calculated where we would have to position ourselves for the proceedings.

‘Come on!’ she said. ‘”Let’s go up and have a look around. We must save all the oxygen in here for the night ahead!’

It was pretty dark and airless in the cabin but I made no move to leave. I sat down on the bed and stared out of the port-hole. The view was of the side of the neighbouring ship so Beth looked understandably puzzled,

‘Come on!’ she repeated. ‘What on earth are you doing? What’s the matter?’

I had to summon all my chameleon skills to stand up and churn out a merry comment. I could feel a spider-web of tension criss-crossing every artery in my body as we made our way from the blessed isolation of the broom-cupboard onto the deck which was full of people throwing streamers to their families standing on the dock to wave goodbye. M/S Sholokov was more up-market than we’d expected. There were several decks and lounges so we weren’t continually cheek by jowl with the other passengers. We did some exploring and I’d begun to relax as we settled down to have a drink. It was sun-downer time by then – except that in Russia the sun never goes down.

‘This is going to throw our drinking schedule totally out of kilter!’ laughed Beth.

But I didn’t answer her. The spider-web of tension was back, even more densely woven than before. Jessica and Juan walked in and found seats in an alcove across the room from us. They gestured to Beryl to come and join them when she walked in with Angela in tow.

‘What?’ I heard Beth ask. ‘Who are you staring at? You look as if Stalin himself just ordered a drink at the bar!’

‘It’s Angela,’ I whispered. ‘Lisa’s Angela. My God. How can they be here? We’re in Russia. I never see them in Cape Town…’ My voice trailed off into a stunned silence. I could have won an Oscar in the field of Surprised Reactions.

Beth stared at me. She’s a smart cookie, as I’ve said before. And she’s been exposed to my devious tactics all her life. I could see the jigsaw pieces beginning to slot into place. My sudden desire to go to Russia. My over-the-top-hilarity on the plane. My reluctance to leave the broom-cupboard.

‘You knew!’ she whispered. Our entire conversation was conducted in whispers. Our fellow passengers probably thought we were spies for the KGB.

‘This calls for a retreat to the broom-cupboard,’ she said firmly. She hauled me to my feet and propelled me to the door. We sat down side by side on the bed while I made my confession. The broom-cupboard wasn’t much bigger than a confession box so it felt authentic. I allowed myself the luxury of tears when I’d finished. Even while I was confessing, they were streaming down my face. So small an area can’t possibly be deemed a public venue.

Beth kept her arms around me until my sobs subsided. She’s a practical person so she poured me a stiff scotch from the bottle we’d had the foresight to tuck into the hand-luggage. The broom-cupboard might have been deficient with regard to bathroom facilities but it did have a fridge. The East German engineers who designed the blue-print had their priorities right. I felt almost normal as I heard the clink of ice and took a shaky sip.

Beth didn’t beat around the bush. ‘You can’t do this Leigh,’ she said gently. ‘I understand completely but that doesn’t make it right. Angela can’t have two grannies. And even more than that. She can’t have two mothers. You are going to wreck everyone’s lives if you bring Lisa and yourself back into the picture. I understand every single thing you’ve done but you can’t do it any more. This has got to stop the minute we get off the boat.’

I didn’t disagree. I knew she was absolutely right. But we weren’t off the boat yet. And even when we were, I didn’t stop completely.

*

Beth planned our boat campaign like a military manoeuvre. She’s a very organized woman. So am I but I was too incapacitated by my predicament to make a coherent contribution. I just wanted to jump through the port hole and drown. It was far too narrow so we had to shelve that option. We thought about flying home but that was a daunting prospect, even for Beth. Everything was so Russian. The Cyrillic alphabet reduces you to a state of illiteracy in Russia. In Europe, you can always hazard a guess about destinations on the metro. They’re a total mystery in Russia. Our manual said the metro in St Petersberg is the deepest in the world because it goes under the river. It said it felt like going down a crowded mine shaft. We thought we might be more likely to end up in Siberia than back at the airport.

And my wise friend also knew me. ‘I think you need to get this out of your system,’ she told me the next morning when we’d had time to brood over our options. ‘Let’s face it, you could run into them in Cape Town any time. Maybe it’s not such a terrible idea to break the ice and get it over with in Russia. It’ll be like a separate chapter that you can close when you get home. It’ll probably be helpful for them too. It was always supposed to be an open adoption. It’s got out of proportion because we’ve all been pretending it never happened.’

Our confrontation with Jessica and Juan was actually delayed for a further two days until we left St Petersberg. Beth and I both have an allergy to tours. I can’t concentrate if I’m shuffling behind a tour-guide with a flag. My darling husband had looked up some Russian contacts and organized a private guide. Tanya collected us at the boat each morning and returned us late at night. She proved to be a cut above the average tour guide, as were the lecturers on the ship. They were all academics supplementing their meagre salaries during the summer break. An academic in Russia earns about a hundred dollars a month. Tanya looked at us strangely when we asked her to take us to a typical pub where she and her husband might go for supper. She said they never went out to supper. But they went to the ballet and the theatre at affordable prices. It’s a complicated country.

I found I was able to push Angela to the back of my mind as we were introduced to the mysteries of St Petersberg. Tanya had my full attention as we followed her down the Nevsky Prospekt and caught a boat on one of the canals. I was mesmerised as we made our way past multiple cathedrals. Spires and domes. Theatres, libraries and five star hotels. I couldn’t make up my mind which century I was in as we watched the gorgeous new millennium Russian girls with their skin tight jeans and cell phones. And then we slipped back a century or two as we retraced Rasputin’s footsteps or made our awestruck way through the Hermitage . It’s like a kaleidoscope of a vanished era. Vaulted ceilings. Rosewood floors. Amber. Tapestries. A treasury of art. My problems seemed irrelevant as I gazed from a vista of the Neva River and its multiple bridges to the blaze of tulips in Catherine’s indoor garden.

Tanya tried her best but she couldn’t even begin to show us all St Petersberg had to offer. We could never make up our minds about the evening’s entertainment. There were scheduled performances by four different city orchestras. Ballet. Theatre. Clubs and restaurants. We only scratched the surface. We were too tired to worry about Angela until the Sholokov pulled up anchor and headed out of the harbour. We woke up to a silent stretch of river flanked by endless forests of birch and polar.

I knew that Angela couldn’t wait any longer.

*

Beth forced me to go over to them on the deck where they were basking in the sunshine. Basking is a bit of a misnomer. No-one would ever get sunburned in the insipid sunshine of a Russian spring. Beryl actually had a blanket on her knees. Jessica’s face flinched with shock as I approached them. I think she was the only one who recognized me. Lisa hadn’t invited anyone but Jessica and me to the labour ward. I’m sure my face must be as indelibly stamped on her memory as hers is on mine.

‘I’m Lisa’s mother,’ I said hesitantly. I didn’t say I was Angela’s granny because I knew I wasn’t. ‘I saw you all on the first night we boarded but I’ve only got up the courage to speak to you now.’ They all stared at me. I felt like a magician. I’d turned them all to stone. Except for Angela.

“Mummy?’ she said, pulling at Jessica’s sleeve.

Her single word drove home the point. I knew she’d never say that to Lisa. I started to babble. About how impossible it seemed that we were all on the same cruise. That this had happened. In Russia of all places. I said how sorry I was.

I knew from my first scrambled introduction that Angela had hit the jackpot with her surrogate family. They must have been knocked off their feet by this sudden materialisation of their daughter’s grandmother. Her birth grandmother. I was conscious all the time of my limitations. But they didn’t get up and throw me into the river. They offered me a chair. Stammered out a few sentences. I could see they were shocked – but with surprise rather than with anger. Why would they be angry with me, after all? As far as they knew, our meeting was pure chance. Something totally unexpected. A black swan. None of us could have anticipated what would develop as a result.

We had a lot of time to get to know each other as the cruise progressed. Our days started early. At seven forty five in the morning exactly, a dirge-like wake-up call would flood the broom-cupboard. This was followed by an equally funereal greeting from the ship’s compere – a somber fellow named Alexis. He’d have been more at home beating up political refugees in Siberia than he was behind the microphone trying to whip up some enthusiasm from the passengers.

‘Gutten morgen fellow travellers …’ he intoned. It sounded like the knell of doom. Beth and I wailed and tried to hide away underneath our pillows but we couldn’t switch him off. The day was officially in progress.

In some ways, my misguided Russian venture was a huge success. Beth and I got on very well with Jessica and Juan and Beryl. They had more in common with us than they did with the others in the tour group. Half of them were German and the other half seemed to have come to Russia by mistake. I think they were expecting a replica of last year’s jol on Caribbean. But there was no hokey pokey on the M/S Sholokov. Our Russian musicians played the accordion and the balalaika and we heard lectures on Russian history and hand crafts. Matrioshka dolls. Laquered Fedoskino boxes with delicate brush strokes applied with squirrel hairs. Faberge Eggs and Pavlovsky shawls. It was wonderful.

But not as wonderful as the time I spent with Angela on deck. I offered to baby-sit so Jessica and Beryl could go to the lectures with Beth. Juan was busy filming passing forests and the M/S Shokolov is not an ideal venue for children. I felt as if I’d been let loose in Aladdin’s cave as I rummaged around in the huge bag of toys and games they’d brought to keep their princess entertained on board. I felt like Beth sounded the day after the tour of Moscow at the end of the holiday.

‘I can’t believe I was standing in Red Square!’ she enthused. ‘Flanked by the Kremlin! I grew up with the idea that they were international symbols of oppression. Look at these photos!’ It was amazing to flick through images of Beth and Jessica posing under the multi-coloured domes of St Basil’s Cathedral. Beth said the opulence of the Armoury made far more impression than the Crown Jewels in London. ‘And look!’ she insisted thrusting the camera back into my hand. ‘A Faberge dandelion! Unbelievably fragile – each seed is tipped with a tiny diamond!’

She’d taken another photo of the giant screen rigged up outside on Red Square. The week before, Paul McCartney had given a concert to twenty thousand ecstatic Muscovites. She had a copy of The Moscow Times which claimed that he’d applied for permission to perform at the Moscow Olympics but had never even received an answer. And now they’d paid him millions to realize his dream. Times had certainly changed in Russia.

Almost as much as they had for me. I would have moaned and groaned and sulked for weeks if I’d had to give up a tour of Moscow to look after Lisa as a little girl. But I was delighted to do it for Angela. Jessica and Beryl were pleased to have a child-free day to view the sights. I felt as rich as Paul McCartney after a day with my grand daughter. I was tired out by the time they got back to the ship. I’m not used to looking after children and Angela was as active and inquisitive as Lisa. She was just as free with hugs and smiles and kisses.

This time round I didn’t take it all for granted. I valued every single minute.

*

I’ve formed a lasting friendship with Beryl. Ironically, it started off with one of my multiple mistakes. It happened on the sixth day of our cruise. I sound as if I’m quoting the Bible. I can’t remember what was on God’s agenda on the sixth day but mine was programmed for error.

Up until then we’d spent only a small part of each day on board. We docked in remote villages with unfamiliar names. Svirstroy. Kitzi. They were the real reason Juan had chosen this particular trip. He must have taken a thousand photos. Amazing wooden churches with cupolas and shingles reflecting the filtered sunshine. He took a video of the choristers in the church below the multi coloured domes and spirals. He made a recording of their singing. Holy words and ancient songs. He got footage of a peasant culture yet to move into the new millennium. Dilapidated wooden shacks. Corregated iron roofs. Old women and children selling hopeful flowers by the wayside. He juxtaposed them with footage of the villages of our former Homelands when he got home. They have a lot in common with rural Russia although St Petersberg doesn’t look at all like Joburg. Beth and I were fascinated.

It’s not only because of Angela that I’ll remember Russia.

Our schedule was different on the sixth day because we spent the entire day on the river.
Beth and I rashly decided to have a treatment at the on-board beauty salon. The list of options was unfortunately in Russian. The only thing we could understand were the prices which were in American dollars. We decided on a lucky draw. It was more like a lucky game of darts. Beth shut her eyes and spun her pencil run and stabbed the list pinned up on the salon door. She hit treatment number fifteen which turned out to be a facial. Quite a western version of a facial. She was all aglow and perky when she emerged from her cubicle.

I was less fortunate. My pencil landed on number nine which sounded lucky at the time. It cost a significant number of American dollars so I thought I must have hit the jackpot. I was wrong.

I was shown through into a cubicle where a Russian babushka was awaiting my arrival. She was a very substantial babushka wrapped in a white toweling robe. She looked more like a sumi wrestler than a masseur. I’m sure she could have taken out the tsar’s entire family with a single blow. She had only a marginal command of English. Her second language seemed to be Rottweiler. She could bark the odd command in English. I was too scared to protest when she told me to undress. This was followed by lie down. I clamboured cautiously onto a cold marble slab. I felt like a carcass at the butcher.

Stage One involved some kind of massage. It was extremely painful. I felt as if I was being kneaded like a lump of dough. I prayed for her to finish. I wouldn’t have been in such a hurry if I’d known what lay ahead. Stage Two was a Russian version of exfoliation. She picked up what felt like a pot scourer and proceeded to remove at least seven layers of my skin. I’m surprised she didn’t draw blood. But it wasn’t over yet. She threw a bucket of water over me. First hot. Really hot. Then cold. Significantly cold. If I’d been fluent in Russian, I would have summoned a lawyer and taken her court. I’m sure I could have sued the cruise line for passenger abuse.

I slunk out and made my weakened way to the lounge for a reviving cup of tea. I looked like a scalded turkey as I slid into the seat next to Beryl and Angela.

‘Why are you so red?’ demanded Angela.

‘Granny made a mistake,’ I answered ruefully. Making another one. Angela pounced on it at once.

‘You aren’t my granny,’ she said emphatically. She patted Beryl’s knee. ‘This is my granny. You’re just Leigh.’

Out of the mouths of babes.

You’re not my granny. You’re just Leigh. My predicament in a nutshell.

I must have looked stricken. Beryl’s face softened visibly as she looked at me. I could see she knew exactly how I must be feeling. She’s a generous woman. She didn’t gloat and crow over Angela’s show of preference. She changed the subject. She was the one who suggested that I might like to baby sit when they went off to see what Moscow had to offer. And when the trip was over, she didn’t push me off a cliff and refuse to see me any more. She took my phone number and said she’d keep in touch.

And she did.

*

‘This cruise has done you the world of good, my darling,’ Eric smiled as we sipped red wine from long-stemmed glasses at our favourite pavement café on the Camps Bay beach front. We watched the sun dip below the horizon, turning the water into a kaleidoscope of fractured pink and red. ‘You look – I don’t know what the word is – maybe lighter?’ he mused. ‘I’ve felt a million miles away from you since Lisa left. As if we’d nothing left to talk about. As if you’d moved to another continent where they speak a foreign language.’ He picked my fingers up and plaited them through his. ‘The only safe topic of conversation was work. It seemed too risky to say what I was thinking. About Lisa. Or your parents. Or – God forbid – Angela. The whole adoption issue has just been taboo ever since it happened.’

It was the perfect opportunity to tell him. I felt like the sun-warm water as I registered how much he loved me. And how much I loved him. Angela’s name hovered on the fringes of my tongue. I wanted to tell him every detail. How much she looked like Lisa. How she never stopped talking. The things she said. How she laughed or threw a tantrum. How her brow furrowed when she concentrated as she fitted the pieces of a jigsaw into place. I wanted to tell him how I yearned for the pure physical pleasure of holding Angela in my arms.

But I didn’t say any of those things. I heard myself say something completely different.

‘Russia seems to have put things in perspective,’ I started. ‘Everything seemed so jumbled. But when I was there, I could translate it into something that made some kind of sense. It seemed as if the adoption had been the right decision after all. I think I’ve accepted that it’s better for both of them …’

I got deeper in, the further I drifted from the truth. I wanted to tell him before the water went right over my head but I was too scared. My feet flailed around but I couldn’t touch the floor. I was afraid that I might pull Lisa in beside me. She sounded stronger every time I phoned. Her words fell over one another as she described the new routines she’d learned, the different ways she’d found to twist her body while she soared above the sawdust ring. The laughter was back in her voice as she talked about the international circus family she was starting to feel a part of. I felt as if I was turning into a mother she wanted to talk to. I wasn’t brave enough to gamble with such high stakes. I dared to hope that in Lisa’s mind, Angela was dimming into a painful memory. I was scared of the past that I’d started to unpack. How could I make Lisa confront a mirror-image of herself? How could I tell her that she had such an enchanting child? A child she couldn’t keep?

I found I couldn’t say those things to Eric either. I lacked the courage to tell him that he couldn’t trust me. That there were secrets I’d never told him. That I was deceiving him on an issue he cared about as much as I did.

I hated myself.

But not enough to tell the truth. I was afraid he’d make me stop seeing Angela. And I knew I couldn’t do that.

*

I continued my new career as a double agent. It’s one rung up the ladder from being a stalker. Or maybe one rung down. A stalker is less dangerous than a double agent. Stalking is a solitary occupation. You keep in the background. You snatch a glimpse from a distance and hug it to yourself in silence. Being a double agent is far riskier. I was out in the open now. I parked outside Beryl’s house and went inside for tea as often as I dared. As a stalker, I lied merely by omission. It was kosher to admit to a visit to Pick’n Pay or the travel agent. They were legitimate venues for me. As a double agent, I had to step my lies up to a different level. Beth asked me outright if I’d seen Angela since we got off the boat. I said I hadn’t. I recited the speech I’d prepared under my duvet in the early hours of the morning as I brooded over what I’d done.

‘It’s better for everyone if I stay out of the picture,’ I told her. ‘It wouldn’t be fair to Lisa if I developed a relationship with her daughter behind her back. It complicates things for Jessica and Juan. It’ll be hard for them to explain me to Angela as she gets older. I can’t imagine what it would do to Eric. You must never tell him,’ I warned her.

It was a virtuous, clear-minded speech. A high-court judge couldn’t have picked a hole in my argument. I said my words sincerely because I knew they were true. I wished I could put them into practice but I loved Angela too much to let her go. I felt I’d die if I couldn’t see her every week. My heart turned over with love as her face lit up when she saw me arrive. I couldn’t bear to give up the warmth of her arms around my neck. She fitted into my lap as if she belonged there.

Beryl and I became friendlier and friendlier as we admired our mutual addiction. We baked biscuits, moulded play-dough and painted cardboard. We laughed and glowed with pride over each new skill that our little girl mastered. Both our hearts splintered into pieces when we heard that Juan had been offered a job in Joburg. Beryl could hardly get the words out after he got back from the interview.

‘It’s some new Australian university,’ she told me as poured a tearful cup of tea. ‘They advertised it some film journal that he subscribes to. It’s director of the film school. He flew up on Friday and he came back over-flowing with enthusiasm You know what the Australians are like. They’re wonderful at everything they do. Juan likes their movies as much as he likes the Spanish ones. The university has all the very latest equipment and access to top Australian script writers and producers. I know he’ll take it if they offer it to him.’

‘But won’t you go too?’ I asked, feeling sick to the core at the prospect. ‘What about Angela? What about Jessica’s job?’

Beryl sighed and said she didn’t want to go to Joburg. She was scared of crime and driving and not having any friends. Her whole life had been in Cape Town. And Angela was due to start at play school.

‘They seem to do pre-school for about three years these days,’ she sighed. ‘She’ll need me less and less. And then what will I do all day?’ We blew our noses and made some more tea.

I was struggling to concentrate. My mind was in turmoil. It seemed as if the gods had actively intervened on my behalf. I’d be forced to end my James Bond double-agent era. I’d never see Angela if she lived in Joburg. Maybe Beryl would ask me round to tea if they came to visit but I knew that it was unlikely that she’d remember even my name. I could stop lying to Eric. And to Beth. I could give all my attention to being a long-distance mother to Lisa. My life would return to some kind of equilibrium. I could hardly bear the prospect but it was a solution to my dilemma. I was powerless to change it anyway. I had to accept it.

It felt as if I’d closed a chapter in a fairy tale as I held Angela tight and close on the day I went to say goodbye.

*

But my friendship with Beryl didn’t wane when Angela moved to Joburg. It intensified. Our common obsession with Angela gave it a unique dimension. We became virtually indispensable to each other. There was no-one in either of our lives who missed Angela to the same extent as we did.

Beryl was bereft without her daughter and her grandchild. Without a job to divert her, she’d been as focused on Jessica as I’d been on Lisa. We had a lot in common. But Beryl hadn’t been as error-prone as me. She’d supported Jessica’s career choice and she was the sort of mother-in-law that dreams are made of. She adored Juan with his Spanish accent and his glamorous career. She told me all about the traumas of Jessica’s failure to fall pregnant. How this had developed into an obsession for both of them. Angela was a miracle who turned Beryl’s world upside down completely. She looked after her every day once Jessica’s maternity leave was over. A toddler is probably even more demanding than a teenager. Beryl and I both grew familiar with empty days when our daughters moved to different cities.

We were ideal companions. Most people’s eyes glaze over very quickly when subjected to monologues about a grandchild. They flinch when a really garrulous granny gets going. I was an under-cover granny so I never got the chance to bore everyone at book-club. Beryl and I were totally in sync. I was riveted by the details she told me. I awaited
each new installment more eagerly than the next Harry Potter. Beryl would repeat the latest Joburg conversations virtually word for word.

‘You’ll never believe what happened yesterday!’ She always started like that. I was all ears. ‘You know how Angela loves to paint!’ I nodded sagely. Beryl and I had used up gallons of paint trying to foster Angela’s remarkable artistic skills. ‘Well, the little girl next door was with her and they were busy working on their masterpieces. Jess asked Angela what she was painting and she said she was painting God! Suzie interrupted and said she couldn’t paint God because no-one knows what he looks like. ‘Well, they will when I’m finished my painting’ she said!’

Beryl and I shrieked with laughter. It sounds a pretty weak story when you repeat it but to us it sounded funnier than the Goon Show. We filed the comment in our memory boxes alongside the photos we downloaded eagerly from the computer. The mornings we spent together were special for us both. Our friendship progressed beyond Angela as the months went by. We talked about ourselves – about what we’d dreamed and what had really happened. I found I could confide in Beryl. I told her all my dammed-up, locked-tight feelings about Lisa’s pregnancy. All the mistakes I’d made. All my regrets.

‘It wasn’t really her decision. Or Eric’s. I made them do it. And it was as much for me as it was for her. I wish I could replay it every single day.’ It was a relief to say it to someone other myself.

‘But surely Eric could have taken a stand,’ protested Beryl. ‘I know I’ve never met him but he doesn’t sound too spineless to stand up to you. He’s not the village idiot. You couldn’t just have ridden rough-shod over him. And even Lisa. I know she was only sixteen but I remember Jessica at that age. She had very definite opinions of her own. You make them sound so powerless.’

I was quite taken aback by this response. I felt almost defensive as I tried to explain that the role of villain was mine alone.

‘You have no idea how manipulative I can be,’ I told her. ‘Eric had no chance at all because I held a trump over every card played. And that trump was Lisa’s welfare. I kept going on about how a baby would limit her choices. How it would tie her down on a long term basis. She’d never have the chance to be young and irresponsible and reckless; to see the world and find a career niche that was exactly right for her. Eric had no chance against an argument like that. Especially when my mother and Beth agreed with me. It would have been like taking on the witches of Eastwick with the three of us ranged against him.’

But Beryl shook her head. I began to feel less like a criminal as she continued. She put matters into some perspective. I remember every word she said.

‘I think you’re judging yourself too harshly,’ she told me in her gentle, thoughtful manner. ‘Have you ever considered the possibility that Eric and Lisa stopped arguing because they thought you were right? Lisa’s life isn’t ruined. It sounds amazing. She really was too young to have a baby. And it’s not as if she’ll never be able to have another one. You haven’t switched off her lights forever. And you must remember how you’ve turned them on for us. For Jessica and Juan. And for me. You’ve changed our lives…’

I found myself nodding. Even going further. I knew in my secret corners that Angela was lucky to be with Juan and Jessica. They were better parents than my moody teenage daughter would have been. And it’s better for Lisa too. She’d always been my butterfly child. A baby would have clipped her wings. She’d never have flown as high. All their lives had gained new dimensions because of the adoption. I’d been so focused on how much I’d lost by giving Angela away that I hadn’t stopped to think about what everyone else had gained.

Except for Eric.

I couldn’t have predicted that Angela’s adoption would be the catalyst for sending him to jail.

*

‘You’ll never guess what happened yesterday,’ Beryl began, passing me the biscuits. I sat up and paid attention. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that Angela had conquered Everest. But this particular yesterday didn’t concern Angela. Juan was the one in the spotlight.

He was making progress. He was a talented ambitious man and I knew that he wanted to make a commercially viable South African movie. Not a documentary. Not another perspective on South Africa’s old or new political scenario. He wanted to make a movie with international appeal – a movie like the Australians make all the time. His home country must also have been a source of inspiration. The movie industry is big in Spain. He probably dreamed of following their example when it came to Foreign Film Oscars. He’d been working on a screenplay with a well-reviewed South African writer. They dreamed of a local cast with sub-titles. Minimal dialogue. I hadn’t read the story myself but he said it was gripping – an emotional roller-caster, firmly rooted in a Joburg setting but dealing with personal issues that would relate to any location in the world.

‘He’s found a backer!’ cried Beryl, breathless with emotion. ‘It’s some IT whiz-kid who’s really into movies. He likes the script and he’s looked at Juan’s portfolio! He thinks they’re onto a winner!”

We didn’t actually get up and dance around the room, although I’m sure we both felt like it. We’d both become disciples of our mutual son-in-law. I’d watched some of the short films he’d made. He’d a good eye for colour and dialogue and his style was sparse and elegant. I liked his photography and his use of light and composition. I had no doubt at all that he could do it. I loved Juan. He was a Spanish edition of Eric.

Jessica spelled out his progress over the months that followed. The movie update always came hard on the heels of Angela’s latest escapade. I’ve become particularly interested in movies because of Lisa. She was working on a hand-held documentary-style movie on a circus life-style at the time. She’d hooked up with a passing student who had to make a movie for his master’s thesis. Her phone-calls became more breathless and excited by the day. I was often on the brink of telling her about Juan’s progress but I was in too deep to dare. I still imagine how different everything might have been if I’d told Eric and Lisa what was happening in my life.

‘You’ll never believe what happened yesterday,’ said Beryl. I tensed immediately. I could tell from her body language that it wasn’t good news.

‘Is she hurt?” I asked, fear snaking down my veins like icy water.

‘No, no!’ said Beryl, reassuringly. ‘It’s not Angela. It’s Juan. But it’s dreadful news.
His sponsor’s pulled out!’ I could hardly believe my ears. He was so far down the track already. He’d starting casting and aspects like production design and wardrobe had already been debated.

‘He says it’s par for the course,’ sighed Beryl. ‘A large percentage of low-budget movies stutter when they get to this stage. The sponsors get cold feet when they see how the costs are mounting and they look at the likely returns. Jess says he’s devastated. He’s been looking at alternatives but the movie industry’s just not big enough here. There are very few people who’ll gamble on an unknown quantity like him. You need names to sell movies on the international market. I’ve never heard them sound so down,’ she concluded glumly.

‘I’ll sponsor him,’ I said. I didn’t think at all. I just said it. And I saw Beryl’s face up light up with hope. I saw her seize my words and turn them into fact. I felt quite sick with dread over the rashness of my offer.

She knew I was rich. She saw my fancy car parked in the driveway every time I called. She’d been to tea with me while Eric was safely at work or out of the country. I live in a mansion. I’m sure she thought the bricks were made of solid gold. It probably seemed entirely possible to Beryl that I had the means to sponsor a commercial movie. I love her without any reservations but financially she’s as clueless as Lisa. She had no idea at all about the costs involved. She probably thought I could just siphon a few thousand from the grocery money.

But movies don’t cost thousands of rand. Even hundreds of thousands wouldn’t be enough. A movie costs millions. Eric’s a wealthy man but he’s not in Oppenheimer’s bracket. We don’t have heaps of unused millions lying around in the shed at the bottom of the garden. And even if we had, I had no access to them. I couldn’t ask him. Asking him would mean I’d have to tell him about the Angela Aspect. AA seems to be an acronym that follows me around. I wished I was simply an alcoholic as I tried to think of a way to raise the money.

*