She wanted to travel. California, Denmark and Peru. We had just been to Peru with our friend Liz. For an entire three weeks! I was done with travelling for a while after that, but Claire wanted more.
I was content with my life in England and knew every nook and cranny of our small town, away from the hustle and bustle of big city life. I loved everything about Cambridge. Its moss-covered roofs and the medieval feel. The carols by candlelight at King’s College, the punters in their boats below the bridges; why would I want to live anywhere else? The world was a big and scary place. Filled with things I didn’t understand.
I had my work as a freelance translator and Claire was a technical draughts person. After the trip to Peru, she was seriously planning to leave Cambridge on a 2-year contract with an international engineering firm in Gaborone, Botswana. Botswana was in the Southern tip of Africa!
There would be an ocean and a huge continent between us. I couldn’t even imagine it. And anyway — what about me?
It had all been Pierre Boucher’s fault! If it hadn’t been for his glowing stories about Southern Africa, she would never have wanted to go and live there. Claire had met Pierre Boucher years ago at college in London. He and his Tswana girlfriend had married and settled in Botswana. Claire had met up with them again in London just recently. That’s when Pierre told her about the big house in Francistown with its swimming pool, maid and gardener and all the trimmings. Not to mention the incredible landscapes and the peaceful quiet around them.
All of a sudden, Claire had to see this fabulous country, wanted to enjoy the easy-going lifestyle, the freedom, the endless savannahs, the wildlife, the huge sky.
She had gone all the way and applied with an agency for a job in Botswana — and was accepted immediately.
A dream come true for her - a nightmare for me.
Nothing worked, not complaining, not being reproachful, not pronouncing threats. Nothing could sway Claire’s decision. Then I tried bravely to support her. As much as I suffered and as much as we argued, I didn’t stand for anybody else criticising my sister. Most people knew that.
David obviously didn’t. My boyfriend David and I actually quarrelled about it in our favourite pub on Norfolk Street. We practically never discussed feelings, but my nerves were in a raw state and truth be told, things weren’t so brilliant between us anymore. He didn’t approve of my sister dragging me halfway across the world. ‘What’s wrong with the Midlands or good old Cornwall?’ he had wanted to know just the other day. As if life was that simple.
We were savouring our usual pasta while comparing cricket teams, when he hit me with his observation.
“Your sister’s odd. Why does she want to live in Africa of all places? I could never live in Africa! Idiotic.” What? I nearly choked on my tagliatelle Alfredo.
“Oh really, and why is that so idiotic?” I glowered.
He took a swig from his beer bottle. Grolsch was his favourite.
“Everybody knows that. It’s not safe there. Africans get drunk a lot and all that...” David saw my expression and groped for an explanation to make his point.
It didn’t occur to him that he himself was on his second beer in half an hour.
“…and they start a war at the drop of a hat. There is so much dangerous jungle and it’s dirty and way too hot… and so uncivilized,” he quickly concluded his brilliant argument. David took another fortifying swig from the beer bottle and sat quietly.
A group of students had just walked in, looking for a free table. A couple of girls stared as if to say ‘get up and go, it’s our turn now’. This irritated me even more.
“So, everybody knows that about Africa! Really? Since when are you so prejudiced? We are talking Botswana, that’s by South Africa, you know, not on Mars. Miles from Angola and Eritrea. There’s no war there and no dangerous jungle.” At least as far as I was aware.
“I knew that,” David stammered. “But still…South Africa isn’t exactly safe either. With apartheid and all that.”
Bull’s eye! In the year 1988, South Africa was still in the middle of its struggle for freedom. I also thought it was too dangerous, but Claire couldn’t care less.
“You know what, David? You are odd!” I flew at him to cover up my fear. “Flip! Claire’s just following her dream and she is lucky enough to have a boyfriend, who wants to go with her. I wonder if you would do the same for me. Probably not!”
That wasn’t fair, but I was cross with David and I was cross with Claire. Why did she have to go to such a dangerous place?
David had just blabbered away without thinking, insensitive as ever. What did he know anyway about other countries? England was his world. But Claire had forced me to think beyond England, even about Africa. Like it or not.
Claire’s boyfriend of eighteen months was Tony Stratton. Nice guy, actually. An economics and maths teacher, who had found himself a job at a private school in Gaborone straight away. Would she have gone without him? Definitely.
David scanned the pub nervously and kept pushing back his thick brown hair. I could guess that he was embarrassed by the scene I made. Were people staring at us? Where were his friends already?
“I didn’t see that one coming!” David laughed and acted as if I had made a big joke. “Oh come on Bridge, what’s wrong with it? I like being in England. Africa is too…too different. A holiday maybe. Although that’s pushing it a bit. I’d prefer Mallorca. But moving to Africa — I just can’t understand that.” He shook himself.
“You can’t let it go now, can you? Oh, you just don’t understand anything at all,” I cried. I couldn’t take any more of this. I felt the fleeting urge to shake David, but instead I made up some excuse about a head ache. I had to deal with all those feelings welling up inside me.
All I could do was to take my purse out and pay for the Tagliatelle Alfredo. And in any case, such a show of passion would have rocked David’s world even more. We weren’t exactly what you would call passionate.
I needed to walk home by myself, needed time to myself. The thought of the comfortable home in Tenison Avenue made me walk faster. Here I felt safe. Just big enough for our family of four, Mom, Dad, Claire and me.
In summer, red holly hocks and blue forget-me-nots framed the soft green lawn at the back of the house. Here we came together to talk and relax on white garden chairs, having tea, while Hinny, our wily grey cat, watched us from the top floor balcony.
I turned into Sturton Street, then into Tenison Avenue. Even in the dark, the warmth of our house pulled me closer. My anger blew itself out quickly, but thoughts I had so successfully evaded, popped into my head. I was forced to face things for what they were.
Claire was leaving me behind and it hurt. Badly. My twin moved to Africa and I was stuck in a rut with David. Movies on Wednesdays, pub dinners on Thursdays, sport on Fridays. Same old same old, while Claire launched into the unknown. I hadn’t really thought of it that way before. Claire was the spice of my life.
Was I being selfish? I decided that I would visit Claire soon, and stepped out more forcefully. Perhaps I should have a good chat with her, I thought as I opened the front door. But Claire was not at home.
The next few days, Dad answered the phone. I was too chicken to speak to David. We wouldn’t speak about feelings anyway. Then David stopped calling. The breakup was quick and painless. My feelings about Claire, however, were so much more painful.
“Don’t leave me here all alone,” I begged her. “I don’t want you to go.”
Oh, I knew how pathetic I sounded.
“That’s not fair, Foompy. And anyways…you are not alone.” She spoke to me as if I were a child.