Shooting Butterflies (9 page)

She shook her head to dislodge the thought of how much she was going to miss him.

‘Come on,' Gabe said and the three of them set out at a walk that soon turned into a canter along the straight stretch of road.

‘Race you to the velvet beans,' Tara said, and she kicked Apache in the ribs. The big horse's muscles rippled underneath her as he surged forward.

The canter soon turned into a full-blown gallop towards the field. Tara could feel Apache labour under her and stretch for his next stride. She rocked comfortably in the saddle, crouching low and feeling the breeze stroke its fingers through her hair. The velvet bean field was on their left, and as she raced towards the gate at the far end, she thought about how recently the beans had been flattened by their neighbour's cattle when they had broken through the fence on the far end of Whispering Winds, and eventually ended
up in the planted lands. She thought about how, now he owned the farm, it no long mattered that his cattle ate the crops that had been sown to feed the people on the farm that she'd never again sit in the kraal eating
sadza
and beans with
mfino
with Bomani and James, or with Kela or Inacio.

She saw the gap in the fence line where the thick branch of the camel thorn tree had fallen, making a natural steeplechase jump. She slowed Apache to a canter and lined him up then gave him his head. He strode over without even touching the thatching grasses that grew tall and brown on the other side. She slowed him to a walk, and waited for Gabriel to come alongside her.

‘
Balla Balla
,' Bomani said, and she turned in her saddle to look where he pointed. A big kudu bull with its twisted horns stood on the edge of the clearing. When Tara clapped her hands once loudly in his direction, he bounded away through the thick bush and was quickly gone.

‘That wasn't nice,' Gabriel said. ‘He was just minding his own business.'

‘Well I don't want Mr Potgieter to see him here. He hunts all the time, you know. You heard him shooting last night,' she said.

Gabe smiled at her. He didn't remind her that her father had hunted too on the very same farm they now rode on. Instead he let her drift away through the forest of trees at the far end of the farm.

When they reached the shallow dam they unsaddled the horses and led them into the water. Soon it was too deep for Tara to stand and she simply held onto Apache's mane as he swam. Ensuring his reins were knotted over his neck, she slid along his body and held onto his tail, floating behind him. When she noticed that he was no longer swimming but beginning to walk she slipped onto his back again. Reluctantly she turned him towards where they had left the saddles. A family of warthog arrived and foraged on the bank.

‘I'm going to miss those,' Tara said. ‘Every time we ride through here, I watch for them.'

‘I know. If you didn't you might get thrown off your horse!' Gabe said as Ziona swam nearby.

Tara smiled.

Eventualy they clambered out the water. Without fear of the horses bolting for home, she watched as they rolled in the dry patch of sand, drying off. Soon they were back on their feet, their neatly brushed hair whorled in all directions as they sneaked the opportunity to snack on the green grass.

Tara, Gabe and Bomani lay on the bank, drying off in the sunshine, watching Egyptian geese squabble over some titbit of food they'd found in the shallow waters.

When Bomani had resaddled Apache, and Tara had strapped her holster back on, Gabe helped her mount into her saddle again.

She looked down at him. ‘He's never going to see this again, is he? He'll never ride with us, never touch Apache. He's really dead. He's never coming home.' The tears began to flow.

And they wouldn't stop.

Gabe didn't try to comfort her. He didn't try to stem her tears as Tara howled into Apache's mane. He allowed her the space to grieve.

Bomani looked away.

One month after her father had been murdered, Tara at last cried real tears.

5

New
Beginnings

Hluhluwe, South Africa

January 1982

Hluhluwe in South Africa was small. It was what the Afrikaans people called a
dorp.
But Tara saw it as a new place to call home. Around the town was bush, and wide open spaces. She wound down her window and breathed in the country air.

‘What are you doing?' Maggie asked.

‘Just filling my lungs with freedom. Smell that air! No soot, no smelly fish sea air … ah!' After the last three weeks in Durban with her mother's family, she was happy to be out of the city and back in the country, away from their relatives.

Tara knew that moving to Durban hadn't exactly worked out for her mum. The happy family reunion Maggie had hoped for was short-lived. Tara's grandmother and Aunty Marie-Ann had started badgering Maggie about getting a decent job, about her daughters' schooling, and how she was going to keep her ‘wild farm girls' out of trouble almost from the first day they arrived.

Dela's voice broke into Tara's thoughts. ‘The map says turn off the N2 at R22.'

Her mum made the turn where a huge sign said Hluhluwe Town, with an arrow to turn right, and Game Reserve, with an arrow to turn left.

They drove along, looking at the town they would now call home.

‘We need to go through the town, then just before the railway line at the end of the town, we turn right, back towards Durban,' Dela said.

‘There's lots of places that take tourists into the game reserve,' Dela pointed out, looking at the shopfronts.

‘I'm just glad it's not tall buildings that crush you in and make you feel like you're just an ant,' Tara said, and Dela and Maggie laughed.

‘Here, Mum, turn right,' Dela instructed as they reached the railway line.

They drove along the dirt roadway to the end of the houses, then turned left and stopped at a wide Z-style gate where a single house sat behind tall trees. Tara hopped out of the car and opened the gate, then followed behind as Maggie parked in the carport attached to the house.

The house was a whitewashed single storey with a green tin roof. Big trees ringed the property and the scent of freshly cut grass greeted them. A note was pinned to the back door, which Tara read out loud.

‘“Welcome, Wright family. The door is open. I'll stop by later to see that you're comfortable.” It's signed “Alice Cinco”.'

‘That's the lady who did the telephone interview with me and organised our accommodation,' Maggie said.

‘So this is the lady who gave you the job despite the fact she knows you can't type?' Tara asked.

‘Yes and you don't need to rub in the fact that I don't know how to be a railway secretary. I'll learn fast, it can't be too hard to do. I think she sensed my desperation to keep us guys together.'

‘I know, Mum,' Tara said. ‘I'm so proud of you for getting a real job. But mostly I'm just happy to be out of Durban.'

‘I guess it's as good a place as any,' Dela said. ‘Just as long as I get my own bed again, I'll be happy. But I'd rather be home in Zimbabwe.'

‘We're not going back to Zimbabwe, ever. The financial sanctions in the new Zimbabwe were not real nice to me as a widow, all I could bring out was ten thousand dollars and our furniture. If it wasn't for the laws of the new Zimbabwe, we wouldn't be having to battle financially at all, and I wouldn't have to go to work. Despite your dad providing for us in his death, I couldn't get any of that money out of Zimbabwe. It's almost like walking out like a refugee, except they allowed us to bring our beds. Our days of having a nice house are a thousand kilometres or more behind us. So Dela, this is home now,' Maggie said.

Tara saw her mum dash away a tear.

‘Dela, you idiot!' she said. ‘You made Mum cry again!'

‘I'm sorry, Mum. I didn't mean to upset you,' Dela said. ‘It's a good job, and we'll learn how to fit in in Hluhluwe, even though we don't speak any Afrikaans and we'll be living in a railway house …'

‘Dela, your days of being a “mistress of the manor” are over. Alice Cinco told me that people who work for the government get their children's schooling at a cheaper rate, and this way we can afford to rent this house and stay together. If I didn't get this type of job, we would be stuck in Durban with your grandmother. Do you think you might like that better than here? At least here we are in the bush again!' Maggie said as she pressed down on the large brass handle on the door and opened it inwards. For a moment there was silence between them, then Maggie gasped as they stepped into the house. ‘And we have our own kitchen, look at that old
Esse
stove!'

A big anthracite-burning stove sat in one corner with an electric stove opposite it. The kitchen was functional, but old. The built-in cupboards were made of what looked like plain wood, sanded and hung, unpainted, with no handles. The floor was an ugly red lino. A huge fridge stood on the other side of the room, next to the door that led into the main house.

‘It's not a five-star hotel, but it's ours,' Maggie said.

They walked into the next room, Tara leading the way. There was minimal furniture in the dining room, just a fold-up table and four chairs. A brown carpet that had seen better days covered the parquet floor.

‘At least we have a table to eat at until our furniture arrives,' Maggie said. ‘Come on, let's look at the rest.'

They toured the house together, surprised to find that it had two bathrooms and four bedrooms, more than enough space for the three of them.

‘Wow, it's big,' Tara said.

Three mattresses had been piled together in the main bedroom, with neatly folded sheets, pillows and blankets.

‘It's nice of Alice to lend us those and the linen,' Maggie said.

‘I bags the room that looks over the front lawn,' Dela said as she tugged one mattress off the pile and carried it through to the room she'd chosen.

Tara took hers to the room that was closest to a bathroom. It was the only room with a picture on the wall. A huge old painting of a baby giraffe, a mother giraffe gently pushing it onwards, dominated the small space. Its calming effect appealed to Tara. She ran her fingers over the intricately patterned gold frame.

She walked to the window and looked through the thick metal burglar bars embedded in the plaster on the inside of the wall. Her new room faced onto the back garden, where a washing line was strung between two uprights. She opened the old sash window and breathed in the scent of lavender. She noticed movement in the bush to her left, and a fat warthog trotted out, its grey skin bristling. Tara held her breath.

It stopped at the washing line and scratched its butt on one of the uprights, shaking the lines and the pole as it got to a spot that was obviously itchy. She let out the breath slowly. After nearly four months away from the bush, she couldn't help but gaze at the ugly animal. The warthog foraged on the lawn under the lines, obviously used to there being nobody in the house.

Tara smiled.

Their house.

It was a bit of a fixer-upper, but it was theirs, for now.

No granny.

No Aunty Marie-Ann.

Just the three of them: her mum, Dela and her.

She walked through the house to the car to fetch her suitcase, which she dragged into her room. The first thing she unpacked was the picture of her dad, a present from Gabe. She thought of when her mum had handed the gift to her at Christmas, how she'd slowly opened the wrapping paper and found the simply framed photograph, taken on the day her dad had died. It was of her and her father together. He'd just helped her onto Apache and she was looking down at him while he looked up at her. Apache's ears were forward and alert, showing how proud he was to have her ride him. At the bottom of the photo Gabe had written: ‘Remember moments like this and everything will be okay'.

She set it on the windowsill.

‘We're here, Dad. It's not Whispering Winds, but at least there are dirt and animals outside,' she said.

Then she unpacked her writing pad, and began to write: ‘Dear Gabe …'

That night, after Alice Cinco had visited and they had eaten a takeaway meal from the Indian shop in Hluhluwe, Maggie called the girls into her room. ‘Come, sit.'

They sat down on the mattress and snuggled in next to her.

She took her hands out from where they were hiding under the blanket. In each palm she held a small sparkly box.

‘Mum!' they said together.

‘I wanted to give you these today because it's our first day in our own home in South Africa,' Maggie said.

Dela ripped hers open at the same time Tara opened hers. ‘‘Thank you, Mum,' Tara said.

She lifted the silver bracelet out of its box. Inscribed on the back were the words: ‘Three's a family too – always.'

‘Aw, Mum, it's so delicate,' Tara said as she turned the bracelet over and ran it through her fingers.

‘Neat!' Dela said.

‘Look,' Maggie said as she showed them her wrist. ‘I've got one too, because now that we're three, we need to be reminded that we're still a family and we need to stick together.'

Tara looked at her mother and snorted. As if she needed to be reminded that they were now just three.

Her father was gone.

Her farm was gone.

Her horse and everything else that was her life was gone, taken away and sold.

She didn't understand what her mother had done by uprooting them and moving them to South Africa, taking her and Dela away from everyone and everything they knew. Changing their lifestyle so drastically.

A few years ago she had been trusted to carry a weapon with live ammunition, to sleep with claymores in her cupboard and crates of weapons under her bed. But now her father was dead and her mother treated her and Dela like children, incapable of helping her to make any important decisions. Yet she was reminding them that they were the remnants of a family. Just the three of them.